Copyright 
December.    1921 

By 

Louis  Albert  Morphy 
(All  Rights  Reserved) 


From  The  Press 

of  the 

Louisiana  Printing  Company.  Ltd. 
New  Orleans 


PS 


~ 


There  is  an  onward  trend  of  affairs,  which 
leads  always  to  an  inevitable  conclusion. 


"Rather  like  a  flash  from  out  of  the  sky,  I  trust,"    (p.  37) 


VERSE— INDEX. 

(First  lines  are  given,  when  there  is  no  title. ) 

Page. 

He  plucked  it.  1 

To  Her.  2 

Why?  3 

Profundity.  4 

His  Dream.  5 

I,  too,  have  watched  the  evening  sky.  6 

The  Inspiration  of  Genius.  7 

His  Window.  8 

My  Model.  9 

Afterwards.  1 0 

A  Box  of  Paper.  1  1 

His  Queen.  1 2 

Another.  1 3 

She  hath  crushed  the  bloom.  14 

On  Re-visiting  a  Mountain  Torrent.  1  5 

On   a  Second  Time  being  shown,  etc.                     16 

To  the  Children  of  Thought.  1  7 

The  Benediction.  1  8 

The  Deceiver.  1 9 

Suggested  by  a  line  of  The  Kasidah.  20 

The  Bard  of  Grasmere.  2  1 

A  Reflection.  22 

The  Fires.  23 

I  am  a  Traveler,  but  not  Alone.  24 

Inferiors.  25 

I  lie  in  the  hammock.  26 

The  Chase.  27 

Love's  Sleep.  28 

Her  Motherhood.  29 

The  Lover.  30 

The  Pines.  31 

The  Summit.  32 

Meditation.  33 


Page. 

Soul.  34 

The  Dancer.  35 

An  Autumn  Night.  36 

Rather  like  a  flash  from  out  the  sky,  I  trust.  37 

A  woman  loved  with  a  man's  strong  faith.  38 

With  Apologies,  etc.  39 

My  Boy.  41 

Who  can  paint  the  things,   though  real?  42 

On  Catching  the  Refrain  of  Distant  Music.  43 

Regret  is  Vain.  44 

The  Fickle  Wind.  45 

I  travel  in  a  maze  of  conflict.  46 

The  Thinker's  Rest.  47 

The  world  is  wondrous  beautiful.  48 

A  Refrain.  49 

To  Hernando  de  Soto  and  His  Bride.  50 


PROSE— INDEX. 

Page. 

In  Introduction.  53 

Teddy,  My  Dog;  Tabs,  My  Cat;  and  I.  55 
Suggested  by 

"An  Unpublished  Letter  of  Lord  Byron".  58 

By  the  Way.  61 

Dad's  Sleep.  63 

A  Prose  Idyl.  68 

The  Stranger,  Again!  69 

The  Swan  Song.  77 
A  Biographical  Memoir  of 

Paul  Charles  Morphy.  78 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page. 

Frontispiece. 

The  Swan  Song.  52 

Paul  Charles  Morphy.  78 

Birthplace  of  Morphy.  90 

Morphy  Home.  1  02 

Courtyard  of  Morphy  Home.  1  1 4 


He  plucked  it, 

A  wee,  blushing  thing, 
Its  eyes  half-ope'd  in  the  morning  dew, 

Glad  to  be  alive, — 
A  rose-bud. 

The  noon-day  came, 

And  wide  apart  its  petals  fell, 
Still  radiant  with  the  babe-like  pink, 
Could  any  one  have  thought  it? 
A  worm,  within! 


One 


TO  HER. 


You  asked  me  to  write  a  verse  to  you. 

It  can  not  be  done,  my  Heart. 

In  the  thought  of  an  English  poet, 

The  stomach,  when  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

Mayhap,   in  time,  when  the  famished  soul 

Has  had  its  fill,  and  beats  with  human  pulse  again, 

Its  throbs  will  echo  to  the  face,  the  heart, 

The  limb,  the  mind,  the  love, 

Of  Her,  who  called  it  back  to  life. 


Two 


WHY? 


Strange  comment  on  Nature's  work, 

That  Woman  should  always  be  painted 

The  central  figure,  about  which  Man's  lust  must  move, 

His  passion,  quickened,  or  love  be  stirred. 

Why,  no  tales  of  Man, 

With  Woman's  lust  or  passion  fired, 

Or  love  aroused,  that  Man  inspires? 

Why,  not?     Pray,  tell  me. 


Three 


PROFUNDITY. 


I  shall  never  seem  profound. 

An  atom  of  Soil  grows  into  Manhood's  state. 

The  Poet  mind  looks  on, 

And  prates  of  Birth  and  Immortality; 

The  Infinite   Being, 

Like  unto  Something  that  is  lost 

In  Man's  Confusion,  and  reflects  naught 

But  finite  gropings  and  colorless  nothings. 

But,  -what  is  Profundity? 


Four 


HIS  DREAM. 


The  outcast  sleeps  in  his  phantom  hut, 

By  the  side  of  the  palm-fringed  sea, 

While  the  moonbeams  prance, 

To  the  ripples  dance, 

Like  the  play  of  a  silken  phantasy. 

Sleep  on,  poor  soul,  in  thy  dream  of  dreams, 

And  sleep  th*   everlasting  night; 

For,  the  soul  that  thrills, 

In  thy  drunken  sleep, 

Hath  passed  from  the  dreams  of  day. 

The  cry  of  Virtue  calls,  a  Life's  uplift, 

And  drowns  the  age-fool  call  of  Love, 

That  rose  in  tatters, 

Born  from  out  Love's  myth, — 

The  love  of  the  Unworthy. 

Knowest  thou  not,  thou  drunken  pate, 
That  Love  durst  live  where  Virtue  hates? 
And  so,  away!  Fast  to  thy  Fate! 
There's  nothing  now,  that's  not  too  late, 
E'en  to  thy  death. 


Five 


I,   too,   have  watched  the  evening   sky; 
Have  known  the  glory  of  the  morning; 
Have  seen  the  blood-red  moon  of  love, 
And  heard  the  kissing  of  the  sea. 


Six 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  GENIUS. 


I  rise  above  the  fires  of  love, 

The  drivelling  touch  of  flesh, 

And  love's  caresses; 

The  maddened  eyes, 

And  clinging  arms, 

Of  trust,  forsaken. 

I  wed  me  now 

To  one  yon  star, 

That  beckons  on 

To  glory  and  renown, 

Twin  steeds 

That  draw  the  chariot  of  life. 

So,  list',  fond  Soul, 

To  the  song  of  old, 

In  the  hearts 

Of  the  men  of  earth; 

For,  I  fly  to  the  sky, 

Where  none  durst  try, 

Who  dare  not  travel  alone. 


Seven 


HIS  WINDOW. 


The  leaves  are  playing   about   my  window-front, 

In  the  soft  caress  of  a  twilight  breeze, 

While  the  clouds  hang  high, 

In  tangled  banks  of  white, 

O'er  dozing  moor  and  mountain-tops,  beyond. 

A  shadow  flits  across  my  window-pane, 

Like  the  cast  of  a  shawl  before  a  glass, 

And  I  behold  a  shepherd, 

Like  a  silhouette  against  the  sky. 

With  staff  upraised,  he  speaks  and  points, 

To  a  woman,  by  his  side, 

Who  listens,  with  disheveled  hair, 

And  the  sparkle  of  upturned  eye. 


Only  the  somb'rer  shadows  of  starlight,  now, 
And  that  silhouette  in  my  eye, — 
The  man  and  woman  against  the  sky; 
And  the  dreamy  thought  of  men, 
With  but  one  window  for  an  eye! 


Eight 


MY  MODEL. 


With  thee  upon  the  dais,  I  paint,  in  words, 

The  things  that  sometimes  make  the  heart  beat  fast, 

And  stir  within  the  fire  of  that  which  I  call  Love, 

But  some  call  Passion. 

Thou  art  nude,   of  course; 

So,  are  models  expected  to  be. 

The  touch  of  flesh  is  there. 

I  see  the  curve  of  limb, 

And  follow  thy  splendid  torso. 

Thine  arms  have  just  let  slip  the  drapery,  at  thy  feet. 

Thy  knee  bends  in  tender  grace, 

Not  knowing  next  just  what  to  do. 

Thy  loosened  hair  lies  at  thy  back,  listlessly. 

Nature's  wealth  is  all  thou  hast, 

And  thou  art  rich. 

Thou  smilest, 

And  thine  eyes  would  seem  to  read  mine  own. 

Brush  hath  painted  oft  the  luring  lines  of  body, 

And  the  lingering  claims  of  face. 

Stone  hath  fixed  the  forms  of  beauty, 

And  left  to  mind  the  beauty  of  its  grace. 

With  thee,  I  have  thy  mind,  and  face,  and  body. 

So,  I  call  thee  model  of  my  heart  and  eye. 


Nine 


AFTERWARDS. 


The  glad  rain  falls  without  my  room, 
And  helps  to  cool  my  fevered  thought, 
That  burns  with  strife  and  longings  unfulfilled, 
In  quest  of  life. 

Man  is  mortal;  the  night  must  fall; 
And  then  must  come  the  answer  for  the  past. 
"Tis  the  spirit  only  that  lives,  or  ought, 
And  the  body  but  its  helpmate  is,  or  grave. 
"Stranger",  that  sittest  alone,  within  the  night, 
"What  is  the  answer,  that  thou  hast?" 
"None,  that  I  can  give, 
"That  thou  wouldst  deem  an  answer. 
'Put  without  the  laws,  in  search  of  life, 
"By  human  act,  that  turns  a  life  adrift, 
"I  sought,  again,  the  springs  of  thought  and  love, 
"And  found  myself  an  outcast. 
"Still,  I  bear  no  hate  against  these  laws, 
"Nor  those  that  make  them, 
"Nor  e'en  the  ones  that  did  me  wrong. 
"I  ne'er  hold  them  in  contempt,  save  in  the  form, 
"E'en  though  they  treat  me  so. 
"But  they  have  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 
"Listening,  I  know,  to  a  spirit's  call, 
"And  what  I   deemed  my  life's  uplift." 
"And,  why?"  you  ask,  with  questioning  face. 
"Ah,  well!  I  can  not  answer  that." 
"And,  now,  they  say  to  me,  'Thou,  foolish  one', 
"Or  'blind',  or  whate'er  else  it  be, 
"Thy  spirit's  jailed:  thy  day  is  done: 
"Except,  thy  spirit  mayst  live  alone, 
"Until  the  evening  of  thy  day." 
"Dost  wonder,  stranger,  why  I  listen 
"To  the  rain  without  my  window, 
"And  watch  its  trickle  on  the  pane?" 


Ten 


A  BOX  OF  PAPER. 

Nothing  romantic  about  a  box  of  paper,  of  course; 

Even  though  the  softest  -white, 

With  the  narrowest  of  lavender  border,  and  gilt  edges, 

And  tied  with  ribbon,  neither  lavender  nor  blue! 

To  me,  however,  it  is  almost  like  a  rose, 

With  its  velvety  touch  and  gentle  perfume. 

I  think  of  all  the  thoughts,  these  sheets  could  bear. 

I  read  the  toilsome  "trip",  of  the  beginner; 

The  "wee-note"  to  the  "daddy",  or  "mother"; 

The  "prattle-home",  of  the  school-girl; 

The  "growing  dignity",  of  youth; 

The  lover's  missives,  with  the  first  ring  of  passion; 

The  deeper  fires  of  manhood, 

With  the  acknowledgments  of  virtue; 

The  sweep  and  balance  of  maturer  years, 

With  the  glowing  answers  of  womanhood; 

The  mother  to  the  child; 

The  mother  to  the  proud  son,  and  he  to  her; 

The  calm  dignity  of  a  father's  lines; 

The  missives  of  declining  years, 

With  the  finger  pointed  at  the  things  to  come; 

The  partings,  the  broken  romances,  the  farewells; 

The  wishes  of  the  dead. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  box  of  paper 

Makes  me  think  of  a  white  rose,  a  red  one, 

The  shell-pink,  or  a  golden-centred  cream. 


Eleven 


HIS  QUEEN. 


My  Beauty,  with  thy  Titian  hair, 

That  walks  the  ball-room  floor, 

With  face  and  grace, 

That  makes  men  stare, 

And  women  feel  the  gentle  pulse  of  jealousy, 

I  know  that  thou  art  mine. 

'Tis  Love's  gift  to  them,  that  see, 

And  the  crown  of  a  woman's  life. 


Twelve 


ANOTHER. 

I  sing  the  song  of  another  Soul, 

Hid  in  the  quiet  of  lawn  and  tree, — 

A  frail  and  delicate  woman, 

With  her  son. 

True  to  the  forms,  that  govern  men, 

Save  in  the  form  that  gave  "him"  birth, 

She  now  holds  on  her  firm,  predestined  way, 

Star  of  a  fixed  righteousness. 

Hail,  to  thee  too,  thou  tender  Queen, 

Strong  in  thy  resolve; 

And,  may  the  star,  that  fell  with  "him"  to  earth. 

Shine  on,  in  everlasting  call  to  thee, 

Twin  light  and  companion  of  thine  own! 


Thirteen 


She  hath  crushed  the  bloom, 

That  grew  from  just  a  bud, — 

I  know  not  why. 

The  perfumed  air, 

That  I  have  breathed, 

Seems  now  but  suffused  heat, 

And  noxious  vapors, 

Stifling  my  lungs, 

And  making  me  sick. 

The  winds  will  blow  again,  I  know; 

And,  with  their  gentle  play 

And  fresh  delight, 

Bring  forth  again 

The  rose-bloom  from  the  sky: 

And  so,  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 

Until  the  night  is  past. 


Fourteen 


ON   RE-VISITING   A   MOUNTAIN   TORRENT,   AFTER   AN 
ABSENCE  OF  MANY  YEARS. 


Proud  Stream,  that  bursts  thy  way, 

Where  unrelenting  Nature  would  seem  thy  way  to  try  to  stay, 

I  love  thy  thought! 

Thy  chasms  narrow,  the  rocks  pile  high, 

Within  the  very  bed  that  Nature  had  thee  run, 

And  make  thee  surge,  and  burst,  and  twist,  and  writhe, 

Until  thou  toss'st  the  madness  of  thy  broken  wave  and  leaping 

spray, 

Like  an  insult  into  Nature's  grinning  face. 
Thou  smilest  at  the  end,  with  victory  won; 
And,  thus,  doth  Nature  vindicate  itself. 


Fifteen 


ON  A  SECOND  TIME  BEING  SHOWN  THE  DESPAIR- 
ING  RHYMES  OF  A  POET-FRIEND. 

I  turn  again  to  the  rythmic  verse, 

And  the  picture  of  things,   "beyond"; 

Of  prayers  and  dreams,  and  visions  rare, 

And  things  that  live  and  float  in  air, 

But  never  can  be  real. 

My  heart  turns  sick  at  the  foolish  thought, — 

At  the  tricks  of  the  mind,  that  fool  the  heart; 

And  the  prate,  prate,  prate. 

Love  is  real;  lips  are  sweet; 

The  panting  breast  is  not  a  dream; 

Still  less,  the  touch  of  limb. 

So,  I  list'  to  your  foolish  cries  and  myths, 

And  smile  at  your  broken  fight  and  faith, 

In  the  thought  of  the  things,  though  real,  you've  missed, 

As  I  hand  you  back  your  rhyme. 


Sixteen 


TO  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THOUGHT. 


Grim  Poverty,  I  wed  thee! 

Knowing  that  Thou  art  near, 

I  have  no  distractions. 

Fortunately,  I  want  nothing. 

I  have  enough  to  eat, 

And  a  bed  on  which  to  rest. 

A  kindly  roof  shields  me  from  the  rain  and  sun. 

My  body  is  strong. 

My  mind  is  good. 

With  Thee,  my  Wife, 

And  Work  that  must  be  done, 

Perhaps  the  Children  will  not  be  Poor. 


Seventeen 


THE  BENEDICTION. 

Out  upon  the  altar  of  the  mountain's   side, 

With  starry  night  its  cover, 

A  man  and  woman  kneel  in  silent  prayer. 

The  sound  of  distant  waters 

Peals  Nature's  anthem  from  the  Wood. 

The  prayer  is  short;  the  reverence,  deep. 

'Tis  the  homeward  journey  ended, 

And  the  shaggy  flock  asleep; 

And  the  daily  tribute 

Of  the  Shepherd  and  his  Wife, 

In    Love, 

That  ends  with  Death. 


Eighteen 


THE  DECEIVER. 


Thou  hurtest  thyself,   e'en  more  than  me. 

Thou  must  have  loved  and  wished  me, 

Else  thou  wouldst  not  have  soughtst  me,  as  thou  didst. 

I  believed  in  thee,  and  thoughtest  thee, 

What  thou  saidst  thou  wert,  and  what  thou  seemest. 

Thou  brought est  me  joy,  fresh  hope,  and  inward  peace. 

These,  thou  canst  not  now  take  from  me. 

Perhaps  thou,   too,   art  purified. 

For,  thou  hast  seen  again  the  stars, 

That  first  brought  forth  the  mockery  of  thine  eyes, 

And  held  them  since. 

Another  Soul  may  see  the  Heavenly  lustre,  that  I  miss. 

I  wish  it  thee,  and  him. 


Nineteen 


SUGGESTED  BY  A  LINE  OF  THE  KASIDAH. 
("And  thus  the  'Immortal  Being*  rose".) 

"God  is  merciful  and  just", 

The  Worshipper  ever  cries. 

The  "Immortal  Being"  rose  from  out  the  Dust, 
Admitted  born  of  Human  Lust. 

"God  is  merciful  and  just", 

The  Worshipper  ever  cries; 

"Has  always  known,  and  ever  all  will  know, 
E'en  to  the  smallest  thing". 

"God  is  merciful  and  just", 

The  Worshipper  ever  cries. 


Twenty 


THE  BARD  OF  GRASMERE. 


Musing  and  mumbling, 

His  head  bent  low,  and  shoulders  stooped, 

He  strolls  his  way,  as  if  without  a  mind, 

Along  the  road,  that  leads  about  a  lake. 

He  stops  to  pick  a  twig,  as  natives  pass  him  by, 

Whom  he  neither  sees,  nor  hears; 

And  then  he  passes,  musing,  on  his  way  again, - 

Wordsworth. 


Twenty-one 


A  REFLECTION. 


Face  to  face  "with  Death, 

I  see  the  meaning  of  Life: 

Work  well  done; 

No  more  sorrow  to  others, 

Than  necessary; 

No  days  lost, 

That  might  reasonably  have  been  saved; 

No  flinching; 

Not  the  easiest  way,  always; 

Forgetfulness  of  self, 

But  not  self-effacement; 

Teaching,  by  example; 

Joy,  but  not  hilariousness ; 

Preparation  at  all  time, 

But  hoping  the  mission  fulfilled; 

A  name,  perhaps, 

But  not  necessarily, 

Nor  exactly  when; 

The  smile  of  fruition,  at  the  close. 

I  see  but  one  contest, — 

When  the  World,  habit-formed, 

Says,    "This"; 

And  a  Conscience,  mind-enlightened, 

Says,   "That". 

The  answer  comes  in  time. 

I  can  not  say  just  when,  or  how. 


Twenty-two 


THE  FIRES. 


The  Fires  of  Birth; 

The  Fires  of  Youth; 

The  Fires  of  Hate; 

The  Fires  of   Love; 

The  Fires   of  Ambition; 

The  Fires  of  Pride; 

The  Fires   of  Jealousy; 

The  Fires  of  Greed; 

The  Fires   of  Envy; 

The  Fires   of  Battle; 

The   Fires  of  Sorrow; 

The  Fires  of  Success; 

The  Fires  of  Genius; 

The  Fires  of  Deceit; 

The  Fires   of  Truth; 

The  Fires  of  Disappointment; 

The  Fires  of  Retrieve', 

The  Fires  of  Passion; 

The  Fires,  that  burn  with  the  Sunlight; 

The   Fires,  that  flare  through  the  Night; 

The  Fires,  Un-named; 

The  Rain  is  Death. 


Twenty-three 


I  am  a  Traveler,  but  not  Alone, 
And  in  Life's  middle, 
Knowing  whence  I  came,  and  why, 
But  not  whither  I  go,  nor  why. 


Twenty-Jour 


INFERIORS. 


Loud-mouthed,  imperious,  and  coarse,  I  hear  thy  voice, 

Battered  back  against  the  vulgar  face  of  thine  opponent; 

Quarrelsome,  and  hearing  nothing,  save  each  his  own. 

Fools,  that  waste  thy  time  together, 

And  seek  to  accomplish  aught,  in  such  a  plight,  save  in  a  fight! 

Walk  off,  my  friend, 

And  prove  thy  Wisdom. 


Twenty-five 


I  lie  in  the  hammock, 

And  in  the  perfume  of  the  flowers. 

Through  the  pomegranate  and  the  climbing  rose, 

I  see  the  Evening  Star, 

That  beckons  to  the  Night. 


Ticenty-six 


THE  CHASE. 


Away,  my  Love,  to  the  mountain-tips, 

And  the  azure  sky,  beyond; 

The  spring,  unfound,  in  the  tangled  fern, 

And  the  pool,  where  the  wild  birds  drink! 

Through  thicket  and  fen,  we'll  make  the  chase, 

To  the  rainbow's  play  in  the  silken  mist 

Of  the  cascade's  rock-bound  dance. 

Thy  raiment  shall  blow,  like  rifts  of  snow, 

As  we  hurtle  through  the  brush, 

Till  tatters  flit  in  a  witches'  night, 

That  saves  thy  body's  milk-white  blush 

For  love's  enraptured  eye, 

And  ravishing  embrace. 


Twenty-seven 


LOVE'S  SLEEP. 


Upon  thine  arm, 

And  'gainst  thy  cheek, 

Wet  with  the  unintentioned  stab  of  love, 

That  brought  the  tears, 

Love's  lips  would  kiss  away, 

Sweetheart,  I  lay  my  head. 

The  day  is  done. 

Toil  has  sunk  to  its  accustomed  rest. 

So,  my  Love, 

Love  falls  asleep  in  love's  embrace. 


Twenty-eight 


HER  MOTHERHOOD. 


I  lie  upon  the  couch,  where  first  I  took  thy  love, 

And  hear  again  the  watching  clock, 

That  ticked  its  unison,  with  the  beating  of  our  hearts. 

With  eyes  half-closed,  but  mind  alert, 

I  see  the  distant  scene,  with  thee  in  childbirth. 

Ministering  hands,  I  know,  are  all  about, 

Guiding  thy  body,  and  waiting  for  the  life  to  come. 

May  the  Power  that  brought  thee  forth,  and  brought  thy  love, 

And  brought  the  love  that  childbirth  means, 

Stand  now  in  unremitting  care  o'er  thee, 

And  those  that  do  His  work, 

About  thee. 


Twenty-nine 


THE  LOVER. 

I  think  of  your  limbs  and  skin,  my  Heart; 

Of  your  lips  and  laughing  eyes; 

Your  breasts,  and  hair,  and  arms,  and  tread, 

And  the  toss  of  your  teasing  head. 

Oh,  Love  is  a  terrible,  terrible  thing, 

When  linked  to  a  Passion's  fire: 

It  knows  naught  else,  nor  cares, 

But  the  quest  of  its  own  desires. 

It  eats,  it  burns,  it  twists,  it  hurts, 

It  lifts,  and  drops,  and  tosses,  and  sways, 

Till  nothing  counts  but  it, — 

Most  so,  when  it  burns  and  quakes,  in  adversity's  way. 

Yet,  there  is  nothing  that  lifts  from  Earth, 

And  works  at  the  Soul,  and  brings  forth  Life, 

But  the  blood-red  Passion  of  killing  Love, 

Strange  as  it  sounds. 

But  the  bloom,  that  dies,  must  first  put  forth  its  bloom, 

E'en  though  it  knows  it  dies. 

So,  the  Love  that  kills,  before  it  kills, 

Leads  on  to  heights,  that  soberer  Love  can  never  reach. 

Your  wild-eyed  Lover,  with  his  piercing  glance  and  stare, 

Rushes  on  to  die,  but  tears  himself  apart,  meanwhile, 

And  ope's  the  veins  and  arteries  of  his  ghastly,   bleeding  Life, 

On  which  you,  and  all,  can  look;  and,  looking,  ponder. 

So,  pity  me  not,  my  Heart, 

But  hang  about  my  neck,  while  I  die. 


Thirty 


THE  PINES. 


Brown-trunked,  crested  spire  of  the  straw-strewn  Wood, 

Nude,  save  for  thyself, 

I  salute  thee! 

I  hear  thy  long,  soft  whisperings,  of  sun-kissed  day, 

And  the  weird,  lifting  sighs,  of  wild  night. 

I  see  the  wounds,  slow  bleeding  of  the  heart, 

That  yields  its  sobbing  wealth  to  woodman's  axe, 

Plying  fast  thy  death,  with  sickening  thud, 

Until  the  crash  of  awkward  limb, 

Outstretched  in  plea  of  everlasting  green, 

Sounds  thy  quieting  knell, — 

Thy  wretched  stump,  sole  monument  of  thy  past! 


Thirty-one 


THE  SUMMIT. 


The  strings  of  the  harp  are  broken, 

And  fall  in  confusion  about  its  base, 

And  I  have  none  with  which  to  mend  it. 

The  song  seems  ended, 

For  I  can  not  sing  without  its  voice. 

'Tis  not  the  morn  of  sorrow, 

Nor  the  darkness  of  deception, 

Nor  yet  the  loss  of  misplaced  trust, 

Nor  the  end  of  hope. 

'Tis  the  end  of  the  touch  of  a  quivering  flesh, 

And  the  thrill,  that  it  brings. 

The  summit  reached, 

"Midst  chance  and  dare  and  love's  devotion, 

A  stern  world  calls  for  love's  last  sacrifice; 

And  so,  I  turn  to  stone,  but  end  the  song  withal; 

And  men  seem  not  to  care. 


Thirty-two 


MEDITATION. 

But,  why  the  end  of  dreams,  made  real, 

And  why  the  starless  night  and  blight, 

With  body  left  to  fight, 

And  soul  to  live, 

And  years  of  life? 

Thou  canst  not  know,  my  questioner,  I'm  sure. 

Thou,  too,  thinkest  only  of  the  spirit,  as  I. 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  man-made  laws, 

Children  of  expediency, 

That  bind  and  gild  us  all  about? 

But,  thou  are  right  in  this,  my  stranger-friend, 

That  spirit  soars  o'er  matter's  mortal  mold, 

Helpmate,  though  the  body  is, 

And  expression  of  spirit's  soul; 

But  yielding  if,  and  when,  it  must, 

In  dying  tribute  to  a  spirit's  goal. 

Life's  race  is  won,  or  lost, 

When  it  is  run,  and  not  before. 

So,  stars  and  sky  and  boundless  deeps, 

Sun  and  moon,  and  birds  and  winds, 

And  all  that  keeps  the  ever  onward  march 

Of  mind  and  faith  and  hope, 

Lead,  thou,  me  on  again, 

As  thou  hast  led  before. 

I  love  thee,  for  thyself, 

And  what  thou  sayest,  without  end, 

Even  to  my  tired  mind,  as  it  thinks. 


Thirty-three 


SOUL. 

That  highest  gift  to  Man, 

Born  of  things  indefinable, 

That  spreads  in  mystic  touch 

From  man  to  man,  and  race  to  race: 

A  language  of  thine  own,  more  like  music, 

Whose  limit  is  but  the  wealth  of  self, 

Reflecting,   too,   Man's  wisdom  of  the  ages: 

Thus,  dost  thou  take  on  thine  Immortality. 


Thirty-four 


THE  DANCER. 

Bring  on  the  dance; 

And  let  the  woman  be  naked, 

Or  girt  with  just  enough 

To  glut  at  first  the  quickening  lust 

Of  those  that  wait,  with  heavy  eye, 

And  thick,  or  thickening,  lip, 

From  whomso'er  descended. 

Whirling,  twisting,  bending, 

Writhing,  wild-eyed; 

Slippery  eel,  evasive; 

Then,  creeping  sinuousness  of  snake; 

Slimy,  gripping,  relentless; 

Blood-arousing   to   jaws,    apart; 

The  prey  enmeshes  more  the  brutes, 

It  keeps  in  wait. 

Stealing,   hiding,  crouching, 

But  not  yet! 

Outstretched,  helpless,  naked,  now, — 

Willing,  breathing,   panting  food, 

To  Beasts! 


Thirty-five 


AN  AUTUMN  NIGHT. 


Like  a  newly-minted  coin  of  gold, 

The  Moon  steals  slowly  o'er  a  sleeping  world, 

As  I  watch  it  through  the  tracery  of  the  trees, 

Soft  whispering  to  each  other, 

In  the  first,  low  sighs  of  Winter's  herald. 

I  hear  the  stealing  rustle  of  leaves, 

That,  seared  and  shriveled, 

Fall,  helplessly,   to  earth. 

Beyond,  the  black  abyss  of  distance, 

Lit  by  the  silver  sentinels  of  night, 

Fresh -bathed  in  Autumn  air, 

Waiting  for  the  Moon  to  pass. 

I  gaze,  with  eyes  apart; 

Then  dream,  with  eyes  half-closed; 

Then  linger,  still,  in  the  'glory  of  night's  story. 

Each  Soul  must  be  the  kindler  of  its  fire, 

Taking  its  spark  from  sources  ever  old. 


Thirty-six 


Rather  like  a  flash  from  out  the  sky,  I  trust, 

That  brings  the  eye  to  look  from  out  the  dust; 

And,  looking,  yearn  e'er  more  and  more, 
For  minds  and  souls,  that  soar. 


Thirty-seven 


A  woman  loved  with  a  man's  strong  faith, 

And  a  man  loved  her  with  a  broken  faith, 

That  longed  to  be  healed. 

What  nights  they  spent,  what  kisses, 

Bewilderments  of  embrace,  beyond  expression, — 

The  delirium  of  sex, 

That  lifts  from  Earth, 

To  make  of  Earth, 

High  Heaven! 


Thirty-eight 


WITH  APOLOGIES 

to 
DARWIN,  NEWTON,  FRANKLIN, 

and 
"THE  SACRED  HOST"  OF  THINKERS. 

So  small  a  thing  Truth  sometimes  is, 

Or  hid  so  far  away, 

Man  knows  it  not  about. 

A  single  eye  observes, 

Within  a  starless  night, 

What  eyes,  as  yet,  have  missed. 

Unerring  Nature  then,  with  Human  Hand, 

Guides  on  the  steady  flight; 

And,  soon,  the  first  faint  star, 

That  broke  into  the  night, 

Fades  fast  from  sight, 

Within  the  glory  of  a  dawn. 

But,  what  of  thee,  thyself, 

Most  wondrous  Mind, 

Creature  and  Creator,  at  once? 

Thou  mayst  check  thyself 

Against  the  forms  of  growth  and  gravitation; 

The  lightning's  flash  across  the  sky, 

That,   harnessed,  girds  a  world; 

Thou  mayst  check  against  the  forms  of  heat, 

And  the  steady  roll  of  season; 

But,  canst  thou  check  against  thyself,  and  how, 

Creator,  Arbiter,  and,  so,  Creation,  all  in  one? 

I  see  no  difference, 

Save  in  the  form,  and  form  of  growth. 

For,  there  the  single  spires  must  likewise  rise, 

That  toll  the  bells  of  thought, 

Which  bring  a  world,  in  time, 

If  not  at  once,  nor  all  together, 

To  worship  at  thy  shrine, — 

Save  sanctuaries,  yet  unfound, 

And  always  so,  but  to  the  sacred  few. 


Thirty-nine 


Hard,  long,  and  dreary! 

Tempestuous  night,  or  one  that  stays 

Beyond  its  rightful  time,  perhaps, 

About  the  spires  that  first  must  rear  their  heads 

Into  the  height  of  black,  or  unbreathed,  sky, 

And  toll  against  the  mind,  that  sleeps,  or  hates, 

Or  lies  within  the  call,  or  calm,  of  bells,  unbroken, 

As  yet,  the  unacknowledged  relics  of  the  Past! 

Such,  however,   (  I  call  Thee,  Universal  Mind), 

Seems  thy  predestined  way, — 

Growing  in  wisdom,  courage,   and  sense  of  right, 

Nature's  tool,  or  checking  consciously,  in  thy  growing  might, 

Against  the  facts  and  history  of  thyself, 

In  single  man,  and  race,  and  past, 

Or  catching  genius'  unchecked  note, 

The  peal  must  ever  lift  and  spread, 

Taking  the  toll  from  the  spires,  below, 

Unto  thine  end, — 

Long,  slow  toll,  and  requiem,  at  once, 

Of  thine  own  creation, 

From  the  First  unto  the  Last. 


Forty 


MY  BOY. 

Wonderful  Eyes!  Sweet-tempered  Boy, 

That  smiles  joy  into  loneliness, 

Where  hast  thou  come  from?  I  wonder! 

The  soup  drips  from  the  climbing  spoon, 

Which  mounts,  with  faltering  hand, 

To  lips,  that  wait,  apart, 

Outstretched  o'er  plate, 

To  sip  the  drop,  that's  left. 

Never  mind  the  suit,  nor  cloth! 

There's  soap  and  water  by, 

And  ready  hands, — 

And  kisses! 


Forty-one 


Who  can  paint  the  things,  though  real, 

That  seem  to  live  in  air, — 

Like   incense,    rare, 

Or  perfume  of  the  rose, 

Or  soul,  that  grows? 

Such,  I  say,  is  evanescent  love, 

That  makes  me  think  of  flight  of  dove, 

Or  star-dust,   from  above; 

The  trail  of  whispers  through  a  distant  cove, 

Or  rainbow-rays  about  a  maiden  wove. 

And  yet,  the  Lover  knows  that  love  is  real, 

Stronger,  Heaven  knows,  than  hoops  of  steel. 


Forty-two 


ON    CATCHING     THE    REFRAIN    OF    DISTANT 
MUSIC. 


I  hear  of  music,  to  soothe  a  savage  breast; 

Likewise,  to  lead  a  \varrior  on  to  war. 

Hast  thou  heard  of  music, 

That  stills  sorrow, 

Brings  chastened  thoughts  of  peace; 

Leads  the  mind  to  think  of  children, 

And  the  help,  that's  needed, 

By  those  who  think  not  for  themselves? 


Forty-three 


REGRET  IS  VAIN. 


Regret  is  vain, 

And  yet  it  may  be  well  directed; 

As,  for  example,  in  the  wish  for  form, 

That  might  direct  attention  to  truth, 

Which,  otherwise,  might  go  unseen. 

'Tis  not  the  prophet  one  would  wish  to  be, 

Nor  find  fulfilment  of  ambition's  goal. 

'Tis  the  truth,  that,  in  the  single  mind, 

Like  budding  Nature,  longs  to  come  to  life, 

When,  and  whereso'er,  it  be, 

That  truth  be  helped  on  just  that  bit. 

'Tis  the  onward,  almost  unfelt,  march  of  thought,  itself, 

Seeking  outlet,  or  aperture,  for  expression, 

That  men  may  find  some  further  way  to  grow. 

So,  regret  is  vain, 

In  wishing  for  the  form  that  will  not  come, 

Though  Nature  may  be  better  tending  there  its  needs,  than  men. 

'Tis  not  vain,  to  wish; 

Nor  vain,  perhaps,  in  bringing  men  to  see,  and  listen, 

In  sympathy  with  the  wish. 


Forty-four 


THE  FICKLE  WIND. 


Blow,  thou  fool  spirit  of  the  night, 

Blow  thy  head  off, — 

Who  cares? 

Thou  earnest  yesterday,   soft  as  a  woman's  love, 

Warming  the  cheeks  of  her  lover; 

And,  now,  thou  dost  churl  and  sour, 

Like  a  dyspeptic's    stomach, 

Mad  with  thyself,  and  raving  like  a  lunatic. 

So,   blow  thy  head  off, — 

I  hardly  hear  thee. 

To-morrow,  or  the  morrow  after, 

Sails  will  be  atop  again,  clean  and  whole, 

Forgetful  of  thy  fool  antics, 

And  smiling  at  thy  rage. 

Fair,  and  on  all  thy  quarters, 

Have  I  sailed,  and  far, 

And  know  too  well  thy  tricks,  half -human. 

So,  blow,  blow,  blow! 

Blow  thy  head  off, — 

Who  cares? 


Forty-five 


I  travel  in  a  maze  of  conflict, — 

The  call  of  duty,  the  spur  of  thought, 

The  wilder  promptings  of  the  brute, 

Yet,   crowned  with  Nature's  primal  need, 

Perpetuation  of  the  race. 

Perhaps,  'tis  best: 

And,  still,  he  suffers  most, 

Who  takes  its  route; 

Not  road,  for  'tis  not  beat; 

Not  wood,  for  'tis  not  green,  nor  sweet; 

More  like  an  ocean's  deeps,  't  would  seem, — 

Surging  with  the  tides,  slow  rolling; 

Cloud  tossed,  in  anger's  heat; 

Calm  as  infant  sleep,  some  other  day; 

Lit  by  moon  and  stars,  at  play; 

Like  me,  knowing  nothing,  but  to  have  its  way. 


Forty-six 


THE  THINKER'S  REST. 


Her  arms  about  his  tired  head, 
Her  lips  upon  his  brow; 
Her  eyes,  that  look  on  his,  instead, 
As  the  fires  come,  and  go. 

How  tenderly  he  breathes, 

Upon  her  nurturing  breast, 

That  she  to  him  in  virtue  gives, 

A  weary  soul's  first  harbinger  of  rest. 

Awake,  my  love,  to  Morn's  delight, 
That  sweeps  away  the  lingering  mists, 
Which  hung  through  thy  long  night! 
Awake,  and  take  Proud  Woman's  gifts! 


Forty-seven 


The  world  is  wondrous  beautiful, 

Sweetheart,  to  thee  and  me. 

Not  thought  of  stars,  nor  golden  moon, 

Nor  sunlight's  glint  upon  an  ocean's  green, 

Nor  fairy  whisperings  in  bursting  buds, 

Nor  chattering  lilt  of  woodland  stream, — 

Though   these; 

But,  in  the  glow  of  soul,  the  wealth  of  mind, 

The  eyes*  uplift  towards  Human  goal, 

The  kiss,  that  seals  a  spirit's  bond, 

Union  of  two  waifs  of  God: 

In  such,  thou  art  beautiful  to  me, 

And  I  am  beautiful  to  thee. 


Forty-eight 


A  REFRAIN. 

"The  world  is  wondrous  beautiful," 

I  have  said. 

I  have  not  said,   "  'Tis  wondrous  deep," 

Though  such  it  is. 

We  sing  of  Man's  abstractions, 

And  seek  to  put  the  flesh  away; 

To  cry  aloft  the  virtues  of  the  mind, 

And  hate  the  promptings  of  the  flesh; — 

Man's  deepest  thought. 

'Tis  fool;   'tis  foul;   nor,   is  there  need. 

That  Power,  that  gave  the  mind, 

Hath  given  the  body,  too. 

The  cry  is  not  denial, 

To  cramp,   or  twist,  a  spirit's  growth. 

That  Great  Unknown  hath  made  the  form 

To  take  aloft  the  spirit's  life, 

Born  to  unseen  greatness. 

I  hate  the  cry  of  fool's  sacrifice. 

I  love  the  cry  of  mind's  uplift, 

That  builds,  in  sacredness,  that  human 

Destiny,  for  which  the  flesh  exists. 


Forty-nine 


TO  HERNANDO  de  SOTO  AND  HIS  BRIDE. 


As  still  as  the  midnight  hour, 

As  soft  as  the  rose-tipped  bower, 

My  Love  waits  through  the  years  for  me, 

Scanning  the  ships  at  sea. 

As  still  as  that  death-like  hour, 
Cold-wrapped  in  the  shroud  they  lower, 
Soul,  say,  lifts  to  the  blackened  sky, 
Wafted  beyond  Love's  eye. 

As  still  as  dreams  that  are  over, 
Now  seared,    like  a  frost-killed   flower, 
My  Love  dies  in   the  thought   of  me, 
Peering  across  the  sea. 


Fifty 


On  the  edge  of  the  harbor  of  Havana,  still  in  a  state  of  per 
fect  preservation,  is  the  venerable  fortress  of  La  Fuerza,  built  by 
Hernando  de  Soto,  then  the  Spanish  Governor  of  Cuba,  in  1538, 
and,  to-day,  the  oldest  regularly  inhabited  building  in  the 
Western  Hemisphere.  From  its  little  tower,  overlooking  the  sea, 
de  Soto's  young  bride,  who  had  come  with  him  from  Spain,  to 
share  the  mingled  dangers  and  romance  of  the  New  World,  waved 
her  last  farewells  to  her  spouse  and  his  fleet,  as  it  sailed  away  in 
the  month  of  May,  1  5  39,  for  the  Land  of  Flowers,  which  was  to 
be  the  gateway  of  de  Soto's  explorations  into  that  then  almost 
unbroken  wilderness,  beyond;  and  where  he  was  to  reign,  as 
Marquis,  over  the  territory  he  was  to  discover  and  reduce  to  con 
quest. 

For  four  years,  Dona  Isabel  awaited  the  return  of  that  fleet, 
and  its  gaily  bedecked  members,  offering  her  prayers  daily  for  the 
safety  of  her  spouse,  against  sickness,  Indians,  and  the  perils  of 
such  an  expedition.  As  the  time  drew  near  for  his  return,  and 
passed,  each  day  she  scanned  the  distant  horizon,  ever  more  and 
more  anxiously,  for  any  signs  of  his  fleet.  After  four  years,  a 
remnant  of  this  expedition,  as  tragic  in  its  ending  as  it  was  bril 
liant  in  its  inception,  and  considered  the  most  magnificent  and 
complete  of  all  the  expeditions  ever  attempting  the  exploration 
of  the  New  World,  found  its  way  back  to  Havana.  From  these 
survivors,  Dona  Isabel  learned  the  full  story  of  that  voyage  and 
its  ending,  the  fever,  that  took  her  husband,  from  which  he  died, 
and  his  silent  burial  at  night  in  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Missis 
sippi.  It  is  stated  that  she  lived  but  four  days  after. 


Fifty-one 


' 


The  business  of  Life  is  to  plant  the  seed 
where  it  shall  always  grow. 


Fifty-three 


TEDDY,  MY  DOG; 
TABS,  MY  CAT; 
AND  I. 

"I  am  an  old  man.  I  was  a  boy  once, — all 
old  men  sometimes  are.  Then,  I  climbed  the  slopes 
of  Italy,  and  watched  the  snow  melt  into  the  val 
leys.  My  parents  were  simple  people,  and  pos 
sibly  what  you  would  call  poor.  I  developed  a 
taste  for  art.  They  indulged  me  to  the  extent  of 
their  means.  I  do  not  know  why  I  left  home,— 
the  'Wanderlust',  I  suppose.  In  the  'old  country', 
we  then  all  dreamed  of  the  new-found  land  of  the 
West.  Gold  seemed  to  be  had  for  the  asking  in 
America.  I  did  not  care  for  the  gold.  It  was  not 
that.  There  was  a  'halo'  about  the  name,  vir 
gin  forests,  Indians,  wild  animals;  men,  we 
thought,  still  had  to  fight  there  for  a  living.  It 
seemed  the  place  where  any  artist  could  paint, 
and  live,  and,  shall  I  say,  grow  great.  I  suppose 
that  is  why  I  left. 

"I  remember  the  partings, — no  need  to  de 
tail  them.  Anyone  can  imagine  them, — father, 
mother,  brothers,  sisters,  friends,  earlier  hopes, 
all  left  behind,  the  land  of  a  new  birth,  ahead. 
That  was  nearly  forty  years  ago,  You  can  see 
now,  why  the  gray  hairs,  and  the  step  that  is 
not  quite  as  firm  as  it  once  was.  I  settled  here. 
The  marks  of  time  are  not  often  to  be  seen  in  a 
new  world ;  but  I  saw  them,  scattered  here  and 
there,  in  some  of  your  buildings.  The  French 
and  Spanish  and  Italian  had  its  familiar  sound 
to  me.  Some  of  your  pavements  seemed  natural 
to  my  tread.  In  youth,  I  had  walked  in  corri 
dors,  not  unlike  some  I  saw  here.  Many  windows 

Fifty-five 


and  balustrades,  your  iron  grilles,  an  old  park, 
or  two,  made  me  feel  not  quite  so  strange;  and 
they  gather  about  the  fancies  of  an  artist's 
mind.  I  made  a  little  money.  Some  few  came  to 
see  me.  Some  praised  my  work.  Not  many 
bought.  I  had  not  thought  of  this  in  a  new 
country,  where  men  were  still  having  to  work, 
mainly  to  live,  and  still  thinking  mainly  of  this. 
Art,  of  course,  I  see  now,  doesn't  belong  to  an 
entirely  new  world.  As  a  young  man,  it  is  easy 
to  think  almost  any  thing  possible.  We  can 
even  change  it,  if  necessary,  we  think.  Sometimes 
we  do;  but  old  age  not  uncommonly  supplies 
the  corrective. 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  finish  the  story.  You 
see  my  pictures  all  about.  I  painted  them:  it 
was  my  only  way  of  talking.  They  are,  to  me, 
the  pages  of  the  past.  I  can  not  part  with  them 
for  that  which  most  are  willing  to  pay.  One  can 
not  give  his  best  away.  So,  we  still  talk  to  each 
other.  At  my  death,  they  can  pass  to  those  who 
choose,  paid  for  as  they  wish, — unless  I  should 
destroy  them.  Possibly  we  should  die  together: 
we  have  lived  together.  Except,  there  might  be 
someone  to  love  them,  maybe  more  than  I 
know.  All  have  not  seen  them.  They,  too,  might 
like  to  live.  I  think  so.  I  don't  think  I  will  destroy 
them. 

"You  must  pardon  me.  Each  man  has  but 
one  life.  Youth  must  bear  just  a  little  with  age. 
We  will  check  up  in  time,  and  you  would  be  sur 
prised  to  know  what  pleasure  you  have  given  us 
in  the  meanwhile. 

"We  shall  go  to  the  gate  with  you,  except 
Tabs,  who  never  hears  his  name  except  at  meal 
time.  No,  Teddy,  this  way;  the  back-way,  when 
we  go  to  market. 

Fifty-six 


"Drop  in  whenever  you  wish,  whenever 
you  see  the  door  open:  that  means  we  are  at 
home." 


Fifty-seven 


SUGGESTED  BY 

"AN  UNPUBLISHED  LETTER  OF 
LORD  BYRON." 

My   Dear   Judge: 

I  accept  your  verdict.  This  is  no 
defense,  since  I  do  not  know  my  crime.  The  blow 
is  greater  than  I  realized,  because  I  can  not  re 
cover  yet.  A  day  and  a  night,  of  realizing  all  that 
these  three  weeks  have  meant  to  me,  have  left 
me  physically  weak.  I  have  walked  without 
seeing,  anywhere,  anywhere,  to  get  some  grip 
on  myself.  I  have  just  left  the  Cathedral,  as 
I  hoped  that  some  reflection  from  the  worship 
of  others  might  give  a  false  sense  of  peace. 
But  you  have  waked  me  with  one  of  the  great 
est  shocks  I  have  ever  felt,  and  my  life  has 
been  one  series  of  shocks. 

Not  so  many  years  ago,  I  accepted 
shattered  ideals,  and  tried  to  fit  in,  as  one  has  to 
live,  and  there  is  so  much  in  life  if  one  can  only 
find  it.  And  now,  after  half  a  life-time,  you  give 
me  a  glimpse  of  what  all  my  life  I  have  been 
seeking,  at  the  same  time  that  you  shut  the  door 
to  what  might  have  been.  I  have  been  so  hungry, 
always,  for  something  to  fill  me;  and,  in  despair, 
I  took  any  crumbs  that  came  my  way.  You  see 
I  am  not  strong,  like  you,  who  have  never  been 
satisfied  except  with  the  ideal  you  erect,  and 
who  will  not  accept  the  substitute.  I  came  here 
in  a  spirit  of  desperation,  thinking  that,  in  a 
strange  city,  I  might  get  away  from  the  rut  I 
was  in,  and  still  find  some  breathing-space,  in 

\ 

Fifty-eight 


which  to  live  something  more  of  life.  I  came 
with  all  left  behind  me,  with  an  open  mind,  and 
to  test  alone  what  life  had  made  me,  or,  rather, 
what  I  had  done  with  life.  It  takes  so  long  to 
learn  to  live  in  a  fine  way,  when  there  is  nothing 
to  guide  one  but  idealized  stories  from  books; 
and  that  is  about  where  I  have  had  to  learn, 
since  my  everyday  life  has  been  sheltered  and 
commonplace. 

Always,  I  have  tried  to  live  the  best  that 
was  in  me,  and  have  found  nothing  too  hard 
that  would  make  me  bigger,  but  you  have 
found  some  stain  in  me,  that  I  do  not  realize  my 
self.  Hereafter,  there  will  be  only  the  best  in  me, 
for  my  self's  satisfaction,  since  I  know  now  that 
there  is  really  someone  in  the  world,  who  be 
lieves  in  the  highest.  I  could  be  all  you  hinted 
at,  to  you.  It  would  be  the  fulfilment  of  all  my 
dreams  and  unconscious  efforts  toward  an  un 
known  greatness,  which  I  never  seemed  to  realize. 
You  have  so  much  strength,  that  I  was  content 
to  be  here  with  you,  passively  waiting  to  know 
you,  giving  you  myself,  as  you  demanded,  and 
not  dreaming  that  it  would  mean  so  much  to  me. 

It  is  best  that  the  break  comes  now,  since 
it  would  have  been  only  a  matter  of  time  when 
the  wrench  would  come,  and  I  do  not  think  I 
would  ever  have  recovered.  My  life  and  respon 
sibilities  are  waiting  for  me,  and  I  know  I  must 
go  on.  I  shall  not  stay  much  longer  in  your  city, 
since  it  means  but  a  closed  book  to  me  now,  and 
my  period  of  relaxation  is  over  once  more.  There 
is  much  hard  work  before  me,  and  very  little 
joy;  but,  I  have  always  been  strong  enough  to 
face  things,  with  smiles  and  courage. 

I  want  to  thank  you  for  all  you  have  giv 
en  me.  The  bitterness  lies  in  the  hurt  that  I  have 

Fifty-nine 


so  unwillingly  and  unknowingly  dealt  you,  and 
the  fact  that  you,  the  one  strong  person  in  my 
world,  have  sent  me  away  with  a  tainted  memory 
of  me,  behind.  Every  one,  I  have  ever  known, 
has  so  far  been  happier  for  knowing  me,  though 
each  has  left  little,  or  no,  change  in  me.  Can 
not  you  find  some  pleasant  image  of  me  in  this 
so  short  a  companionship?  Perhaps,  the  thought 
that  you  have  brought  me  back  to  a  sense  of  the 
finest  may  help  a  little,  though  it  can  do  noth 
ing  to  ease  your  mind  of  its  problems.  To-mor 
row,  I  am  going  to  find  work  in  a  factory  here, 
until  I  make  enough  to  go  away.  I  have  abso 
lutely  nothing,  and  my  pride  will  not  let  me  be 
sent  home.  I  will  try  no  more  work  where  per 
sonality  counts,  while  here,  since  this  city  means 
to  me  simply  a  setting  for  you. 

I  do  not  know  how  you  will  think  of  this 
effort  to  talk  to  you,  but,  since  I  never  expect  to 
see  you  again,  it  is  my  only  way  of  telling  you, 
"Good-bye". 

Lerscha. 

You  will  find  the  key,  that  I  had,  in  the 
drawer  of  the  library-table. 


Sixty 


Blind    nature    selects.    Why    not,    human 
beings? 


Sixty-one 


DAD'S  SLEEP. 

The  snow  flecked  against  the  half -sheltered 
window-panes,  while  the  wind  whistled  through 
the  forest.  It  was  a  wonderful  night,  in  some 
ways.  There  was  no  moon,  of  course;  nor  the 
twinkling  welcome  of  the  silver  star.  1 1  was  more 
a  wild  night,  as  though  some  demon-like  spirits, 
in  a  mixture  of  devilish  glee  and  "  don't-care", 
were  seeing  what  mischief  they  could  do,  with 
no  thought  of  the  "little  hearts,"  that  could  see 
nothing  but  disappointment  on  the  morrow,  not 
old  enough  yet  to  know  how  quickly  and  how 
unexpectedly  calms  and  storms  follow  each 
other,  as  with  life,  husband  and  wife,  children, 
everything,  in  fact,  that  thinks, — supposed  to. 

The  little  hut  seemed  almost  to  tremble,  as 
the  wind  raised,  The  tree-sighs  carried  through 
the  hollows  and  over  the  hill-tops,  and  the  snow 
began  to  pile.  The  yellow  warmth  of  a  lamp 
shone  dimly  through  the  spotted  window.  The 
broken  lines  of  a  child's  figure  traveled,  in  jerks, 
across  the  glass.  At  times,  one  caught  the  lift 
ing  laugh  of  the  child,  then  the  mellow  tones 
of  a  woman's  voice:  once,  or  twice,  the  stifled 
"grunt",  as  it  were,  of  a  dog. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,  don't  you  think, 
sweetheart?  It  is  late,  and  you  must  be  sleepy. 
And,  how  is  Santa  Claus  going  to  get  in,  if  you 
stay  awake?" 

"Baby  not  sleepy,   mother." 

"Yes,  but  you  are;  and  the  sooner  you  go  to 
sleep,  the  sooner  Santa  Claus  will  come.  Don't 
you  know  that?" 

Sixty-three 


"All  right," — his  style,  though  four  years  old. 

Clothes  were  soon  off,  and  laid  away:  the 
outline  of  a  tiny  form  beneath  a  "crazy-quilt", 
a  picture-face  and  head,  showing.  Sweet  dreams! 
Only  he  knew. 

The  fire  flickers.  Pine-sparks  jump  about, 
but  do  no  harm  in  that  huge  hearth.  They  seem 
to  make  merry,  in  their  own  delight,  with  the 
whistling  winds  and  the  snow,  outside.  A  tired 
"heart",  but  not  too  tired,  the  line  that  comes 
only  of  tender  reflection  over  sweet  memories, 
unredeemable,  in  a  beautiful  face,  falls  asleep  in 
her  chair,  some  man's  handiwork, — the  shaggy 
dog  at  her  feet. 

Strange  place  for  a  young  woman  and  her 
child,  alone, — with  those  delicate  features,  the 
soft  voice,  the  small  foot,  her  lips ;  and  his  face,  as 
he  sleeps!  Not  another  house  within  half  a  mile; 
no  farm  of  their  own :  signs  of  flowering  bushes 
and  vines,  but  nothing  to  eat!  A  dog  barked  in 
the  distance.  The  one  on  the  hearth  looked  up, 
but  went  back  to  sleep.  So,  did  "she". 

Like  life,  did  we  say,  the  storm  broke.  Hard 
ly  a  flake,  now.  Lighter  clouds,  with  their  sil 
ver  fringes  showing.  A  rift  here,  and  the  tip  of  a 
silver  crescent.  Low,  sweet  sighings,  the  tempest 
past.  The  winds  would  ask  forgiveness,  as  it 
were,  for  even  frightening  children.  The  mother 
still  dreams.  Gentle,  almost  even,  flickerings  of 
the  fire,  and  the  warmth  of  embers. 

"It  seems  a  pretty  poor  time,  love,  for  an 
artist  to  be  working,  but  I  think  I  can  catch  just 
what  I  want.  I  am  after  the  jutting  laurel  and 
the  snow,  together,  against  the  rocky  cliffs  of 

old  Whitesides.   It  will  make  a  wonderful  pic- 

»> 
ture. 

Sixty-four 


"But,  heart,  how  can  you  work  in  such 
weather?  It's  enough  to  give  you  pneumonia 
besides,  sitting  there  in  such  weather.  I  would 
rather  you  wouldn't  try  it." 

"I'll  make  it  all  right.  I  want  the  picture 
for  a  Christmas  present  for  you  and  myself,  as 
it  were.  It  has  been  hanging  in  my  mind  all  Fall, 
and  there  is  just  about  the  right  amount  of  snow 
there  now  to  get  my  last  effects.  I'll  show  it 
to  you  when  it's  finished.  Don't  worry.  I'm 
'bundled'  all  right." 

Kisses,  and  he  was  off. 

"Mommy,  is  Dad  back  yet?" 

"Not  yet,  sweetheart.  He  said  he  wanted  to 
finish  a  picture,  that  we  were  all  going  to  be 
proud  of.  It  is  quite  a  walk  back,  and,  though  he 
didn't  tell  me,  the  night  is  so  bad,  he  may  stay, 
I'm  sure,  at  one  of  the  farmhouses  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  over-night,  especially  if  he  hasn't  been 
able  to  finish  before  dark.  If  he  doesn't  come 
pretty  soon,  though,  we'll  go  to  bed,  and  look 
for  him  to-morrow.  Mother's  not  worried." 

They  must  have  been  as  they  called  each 
other,  "heart"  and  "love",  and  the  sparkle 
was  in  the  child's  eye.  He  was  an  artist,  and  she 
was  a  fit  wife.  They  had  come  to  this  mountain- 
spot  for  some  of  his  work.  As  a  youth,  he  had 
roamed  through  these  mountains,  his  "pack"  on 
his  back,  drinking  in  the  perfume  of  the  woods, 
and  catching  the  thread-like  streams  through 
the  hemlock.  He  sketched  a  little  then,  just  be 
ginning.  Now,  he  was  further  on,  but  love  was 
still  fresh,  and  the  trees  swayed,  and  the  birds 
sang,  with  some  one  else,  at  his  side.  She  knew  it ; 
and  so,  why  shouldn't  they  both  be  happy.  The 
"touch"  was  in  his  work.  No,  they  were  not 
care-free.  They  were  just  beautifully  balanced, 

Sixty-five 


and  the  "lilt"  from  day  to  day  never  ended.  The 
scent  of  the  wild  flowers  was  there,  and  they 
smelled  it.  The  drone  of  the  bumble-bee  circled 
through  the  day,  and  they  heard  it.  The  tinkle 
of  the  cow-bell,  through  the  hollow,  was  like  the 
call  to  supper,  with  the  first  faint  ray  of  the 
evening  star,  when  "he"  might  not  be  catching 
the  rose-tints  of  sunset.  And  so,  the  dream, 
made  real,  went  on,  and  the  child's  merry  laugh 
fit  in. 

Morning  came:  no  Dad.  Evening  came:  no 
Dad.  They  found  him  the  next  day, — at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff. 

School-starting  time  will  come  in  a  few 
years,  and  the  little  figure  will  not  then  flit  any 
longer  across  the  window-panes,  flecked  with  the 
snow  sometimes;  letting  in  sun's  rays  at  other 
times;  letting  the  mother  look  sometimes  at  the 
moon  and  the  stars,  and  the  silver  sheen  of  the 
snow-banks,  as  she  listens  to  the  crackle  of  the 
pine  on  the  hearth.  In  the  meanwhile,  Daddy 
sleeps  on  the  hillside,  by  the  rhododendron 
and  the  laurel,  with  a  huge  boulder  at  his  head. 
The  colors  change  all  about  him,  with  the 
Spring,  and  the  Summer,  and  the  Autumn;  and, 
in  the  Winter,  the  squirrels  sometimes  leap  past 
him.  "She",  and  "he",  that  is  yet  hardly  able  to 
know,  are  near.  Flowers  and  vines  are  still  tend 
ed.  Fortunately,  they  have  enough  for  this. 
When  school-time  comes,  he  will  start.  His  future, 
now,  is  here.  Daddy  will  still  sleep  just  where  he 
is.  He  loved  it  so.  What  is  it  that  brings  wealth 
of  mind? 

"Why,  I  didn't  dream  I  had  slept  so  long!  I 
will  never  have  the  things  ready  for  the  baby, 
and  his  little  friends.  Hurry,  I  should  say!  I 
see  the  sun  breaking  now." 

Sixty-six 


They  are  all  happy,  now.  The  spirit  of 
Christmas  is  awake.  The  winds  have  quit.  The 
snow  is  there,  but  the  sun,  too.  Baby  prattle  and 
noises  are  all  about,  with  so  many  "thanks", 
to  the  kind  "lady",  who  thinks  of  others,  as  well 
as  her  own.  Two,  or  three,  baskets  of  fruits,  vege 
tables,  farm-things,  honey,  eggs,  are  near-by,  sim 
ple  presents,  appreciated  by  a  delicate  mind. 
The  scene  will  probably  be  repeated  for  a  few 
years.  As  much  happiness  to  all?  Let  us  hope  so. 
Some  will  probably  always  celebrate  just  such  a 
Holiday;  possibly  all  of  them,  except  the  life 
that  must  grow  into  Dad's  place. 


Sixty-seven 


A   PROSE   IDYL. 

The  human  body  is  so  beautiful! 

The  Maker  of  All  Things  has  shaped  the 
body  of  a  man  and  of  a  woman.  The  man  is 
strong  and  sinewy.  His  limbs  are  lithe  and 
straight.  His  head  should  stand  erect,  and  his 
vision  be  clear. 

At  his  side,  is  the  figure  of  the  woman.  Her 
skin  is  soft.  Her  breasts  are  full  and  true.  Her 
limbs  invite  the  admiration  of  her  consort. 
Her  eyes  are  pleading.  As  yet,  she  lives  in  and 
through  him.  Her  body  is  his  inspiration. 

Is  that  all?  Not  yet.  She  has  a  soul,  as  he 
has.  She  speaks,  as  he  speaks.  She  loves,  as  he 
loves.  They  both  love.  A  light  comes  into  their 
eyes,  a  holy  light, — the  light  of  love,  which  no 
one,  who  never  loves,  can  see.  For  him,  for  her, 
a  halo  comes  about  the  figure,  of  the  man  and 
of  the  woman,  each  of  the  other.  It  is  the  soul 
of  the  body.  The  soul  steals  more  and  more 
from  the  body,  but  gives,  also.  The  new  lights 
come  about  the  body.  The  body  can  never  live 
alone,  again. 


Sixty-eight 


THE  STRANGER,  AGAIN! 

"Why,  you  here  again?  You  mustn't  do 
that.  We,  old  men,  as  I  told  you,  will  talk,  and 
youth  isn't  always  impolite,  as  you,  yourself, 
prove." 

"But,  I  came  here  this  evening  for  two 
things;  one,  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  and  the  other, 
I  am  not  going  to  tell  you,  possibly." 

"That's  interesting.  Well,  let's  have  it." 

"First,  I  want  to  know  why  it  is  that  you 
live  here  with  a  dog  and  a  cat.  You've  never  of 
fered  to  tell  me,  and  so  I  have  to  ask." 

"Is  that  the  thing  you  were  going  to  tell 
me?" 

t»\r         >» 

Yes. 

"Interesting  way  of  telling  me  something." 

"I  did  get  it  a  little  twisted.  Didn't  I?" 

"Well,  I  would  say  slightly." 

"But  you  don't  mind  telling  me,  do  you?" 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  a  pretty  good  joke  on  my 
self;  and,  considering  you  are  a  woman,  you 
have  gone  about  getting  it  out  of  me  just  about 
the  natural  way.  Where  shall  I  begin?" 

"At  the  start." 

"Oh,  no!  That's  too  far  back." 

;;But,  I'd  rather." 

"Well,  we'll  get  over  the  first  part  quickly, 
then." 

"Just  so  you  don't  skip  anything." 

"Very  good.  We  start. 

"As  a  young  man,  I  didn't  wish  to  marry 
at  all.  What  does  a  young  man  wish  to  marry 
for?  If  an  ordinary  mortal,  he  gets  tired.  If  he  is 
not  ordinary,  then  everybody  tells  him  he  will 

Sixty-nine 


never  settle  down  to  the  humdrum  of  married 
life.  How  many  writers  or  artists,  that  you 
know  of,  ever  amounted  to  anything  in  marriage? 
I  mean  the  'fellows'  that  stand  out  through  the 
past.  Peculiar,  isn't  it?  And  yet,  it's  so.  Well, 
I  would  never  admit  I  was  an  ordinary  mortal; 
and,  if  I  was,  why,  according  to  my  friends,  and 
what  I  could  see  of  it  myself,  I  was  bound  to  get 
tired,  if  I  did  marry.  So,  what  was  the  use,  in 
either  case?  I  didn't  marry. 

"Oh,  I  had  lots  of  fun.  We,  boys,  have  lots 
of  fun.  I  had  a  glorious  time.  Nothing  ever  do 
ing,  that  I  didn't  know  about  it,  and  generally 
get  into  it,  good  or  bad, — most  of  the  time,  bad. 
I  was  keeping  up  my  painting,  working,  I 
thought,  for  a  future.  Fine  thought  now,  isn't  it? 
I  was  supposed  to  do  pretty  fair  work.  I  did 
pretty  fair  work.  That's  it,  pretty  fair.  Nothing 
wonderful.  I  woke  up  one  day,  to  find  myself 
forty-five  years  of  age,  with  nothing  very  much 
done;  and  I  was  considered,  in  my  youth,  to 
have  talent.  I  remember  the  day  the  thought 
struck  me.  I  felt  like  a  school-boy.  I  do  not  see, 
even  now,  how  I  can  smile  at  the  recollection. 
Probably,  grown  hard;  and  then,  there  is  another 
thought.  Humor  and  pathos  run  such  a  close 
race,  in  life,  that  we  never  know  just  which  one 
is  ahead.  I  don't  know  now.  I  suppose  that  is 
why  I  am  laughing.  You  are  still  too  young. 

"I  sat  in  front  of  this  fire-place,  one  night, 
— where  you  are  sitting  now.  I  rehearsed  to  my 
self  that  whole  miserable  past  of  mine.  My  par 
ents  were  dead.  I  had  had  a  sister,  but  she  was 
dead,  leaving  a  daughter,  who  subsequently 
married,  but  of  whom  I  never  knew  very  much, 
anyhow.  I  never  kept  in  touch  with  anybody,  as 
you  can  imagine.  As  I  thought  over  the  situation, 

Seventy 


I  said  to  myself,  it's  not  too  late  yet.  Things 
have  been  done  by  men  of  your  age,  but  you  had 
better  not  waste  any  more  time.  I  had  unmis 
takable  talent,  I'm  sure,  but  I  had  never  led  the 
life  that  could  be  expected  to  bring  any  possible 
depth  to  my  work.  A  person  may  paint  pretty 
pictures,  just  as  many  may  write  fairly  pretty 
stories,  pleasing,  if  you  will,  but,  ultimately,  of  a 
more  or  less  superficial  character, — no  depth,  as  I 
said.  To  do  fine  things,  you've  got  to  have  ability, 
of  course,  but  you've  got  to  have  character,  too. 
I  am  sure  that  I  had  very  much  more  than  ordi 
nary  ability.  I  didn't  have  the  character.  Very 
simple!  So,  the  man  of  forty-five  started  to 
build  it  up.  Rather  humorous  in  itself,  isn't  it? 

"That  past  hadn't  been  quite  so  bad  for 
years  back,  but  right  then  I  closed  it  like  a 
book.  I  took  a  sea-trip.  I  watched  the  porpoises 
play  about  the  vessel,  so  many  days.  At  night, 
I  stayed  on  the  deck  to  watch  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  and  to  hear  the  swish  of  the  water  against 
the  vessel's  side,  the  striking  of  the  ship's  bell, 
and  the  worthy  beat  of  the  engines,  below.  It 
did  me  a  world  of  good.  Started  me  on  the  right 
track  again.  I  can  recall  the  satisfied  spirit, 
with  which  I  stepped  ashore,  buttoning  my  coat 
on  the  gang-plank,  for  further  protection,  I 
suppose.  You  smile.  I  made  it;  but  too  late  for 
any  outsider  to  admit.  The  brand  was  indelible. 
I  could  see  the  improvement  in  my  work;  but 
others,  of  course,  wore  their  old  spectacles.  So, 
my  conquest  was  for  my  own  purposes,  solely. 
That  is  why  you  see  so  many  of  my  pictures, 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  about  me.  They  be 
long  to  different  states  of  my  mind,  different 
periods,  but  they  are  all  catalogued  substantially 

Seventy-one 


alike, — the  reflections  of  my  poorer  work.  Still, 
I'm  not  sorry.  I  did  right. 

"I  think  I  said  I  would  get  over  this  first 
part  of  my  story  quickly.  Rather  slow  'speed', 
isn't  it?  But,  I  am  old,"  with  a  laugh. 

"We  come  to  your  part,  now.  I  advertised 
one  day  for  a  housekeeper.  I  was  over  fifty  then. 
I  had  continued  to  fight  my  battle  alone,  and 
only  for  the  satisfaction  it  gave  me.  I  had  an  old 
colored  woman  helping  me  generally  about  the 
place,  getting  up  my  meals,  also,  when  I  wished 
them  at  home.  I  didn't  have  Teddy  and  Tabs 
then.  I  bought  them  later.  I  was  beginning  to  feel 
lonely,  though  I  hardly  knew  it  by  that  name.  If 
one  is  by  himself,  but  has  enough  work  to  keep 
him  busy,  he  can  get  along  pretty  well  without 
exactly  experiencing  loneliness.  If  he  has  the 
social  instinct,  he  gets  on  fairly  well,  too.  If  he 
'wastes'  his  time,  he  thinks  he  gets  on  very  well. 
I  was  coming  late  in  life  to  have  the  thoughts, 
that  were  a  little  late  in  arriving.  As  an  artist, 
my  future,  I  then  came  to  see  beyond  a  doubt, 
like  my  past,  was  practically  set.  I  thought  some 
woman  would  bring  a  touch  into  my  home,  that 
I  longed  for. 

"I  was  right.  I  was  always  right  in  the  con 
clusions,  wrong  in  the  choice.  A  young  woman 
came  one  day,  answering  the  advertisement,  say 
ing  she  needed  work.  I  was  rather  surprised  at  a 
person  of  her  apparent  position,  applying  for 
work  of  this  character;  nothing  degrading,  of 
course,  but  it  seemed  rather  unusual  to  find  a 
young  woman  of  her  type  seeking  domestic  em 
ployment.  I  thought  I  would  ask  no  questions, 
and  I  took  her  in.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
been  brought  into  such  close  contact  with  a 
woman  of  her  delicacy,  and,  after  a  while,  I  be- 

Seventy-two 


gan  to  feel  it.  I  mean  that  seriously.  I  did  not  pay 
very  much  attention  to  it  for  a  long  time,  I  think 
I  could  say ;  and  then  it  finally  began  to  dawn  on 
me  that  this  young  woman  was  becoming  some 
thing  very  peculiar.  I  never  cared  very  much  for 
the  use  of  the  word,  'love'.  I  have  never  known 
just  what  it  meant.  I  was  only  beginning  to  know 
that  my  home  was  coming  to  mean  something 
for  me,  very  different  from  the  'knockabout' 
place  I  had  known.  You  see,  I  had  not  even 
dreamed  very  much  about  a  home.  Really,  didn't 
think  much  about  it.  Too  busy  with  other  things. 

"Time  grew,  and  the  strain  grew.  Sometimes 
I  could  not  resist  touching  her  hair.  She  let  me 
do  this.  The  next  step  was  sometimes  seeing  her 
through  the  night,  when  I  would  be  alone.  The 
thought  was  sweet.  It  was  harmless,  too.  One  day 
I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  can  see  it  so  well.  I 
have  to  laugh  now.  The  child  seemed  thunder 
struck.  She  wasn't  even  able  to  answer.  Her  si 
lence  awoke  me.  I  wasn't  a  fool.  I  had  just  mere 
ly  temporarily  gotten  out  of  my  mind,  as  it  were. 

"Pardon  me,'  I  said,  after  a  moment's 
awkward  silence,  '  I  am  all  right  again,  now.  You 
must  forgive  me.  I  promise  not  to  let  it  happen 
again.  You  must  take  my  hand  in  token  of  for 
giveness.'  She  did. 

"Nothing  more  was  ever  said,  or  done,  but 
I  had  spoiled  everything.  I  was  then  fifty-five, 
proposing  to  her,  a  girl  of  twenty-two,  as  I  recall 
her  age.  How  selfish,  if  nothing  else!  The  harm 
never  could  be  undone.  I  could  still  not  suppress 
myself  entirely.  I  could  not  begin  to  restore  orig 
inal  conditions.  She  could  not  forget  what  I  had 
been  willing  to  say,  and  do.  There  could  be  but 
one  ending  to  this.  She  had  to  leave  me.  It  wasn't 
fair  for  her  to  stay  around  me,  after  that.  I  told 

Seventy-three 


her  she  must  go.  I  was  glad  she  took  it  as  sweetly 
as  she  did.  She  kissed  me  good-bye.  I  have  never 
seen  her  since.  She  wanted  to  write  me  sometime, 
she  said,  but  I  told  her,  no,  she  mustn't  do  it: 
that  she  must  forget  all  about  this  place,  except 
some  day  to  make  for  some  man  the  home  I 
knew  she  could,  and  which  I  had  never  tried  for, 
until  I  had  become  an  'old  fool',  I  believe  I  said. 
Sometimes,  I  think  I  would  be  interested  to 
know  just  what  did  become  of  her.  Of  course,  I 
have  passed  out  of  her  mind,  as  it  was  nearly 
five  years  ago,  that  she  left  here.  The  old  colored 
woman  is  back.  She,  Teddy,  Tabs,  and  I  now 
make  up  the  household :  I  suppose,  for  the  rest  of 
the  time,  until  one,  or  the  other,  'checks  in', 
shall  I  say?  That  is  the  story  of  the  old  man  of 
sixty  years,  now.  Not  much  of  a  life,  is  it?  If 
some  of  us  live  for  others,  and  some  for  ourselves, 
then  some,  for  what?  Do  not  take  this  as  pes 
simism,  please.  I  am  just  thinking,  myself." 

"Do  you  remember  the  name  of  this  young 
woman,  that  worked  for  you?" 

"Why,  a  simple  name:  I  think  it  was  Ruth. 
I  forget  the  family-name.  I  always  called  her, 
Ruth." 

"Her  name  wasn't  Ruth  Sorensen,  was  it?" 

"No,  no.  The  first  name  was  Ruth,  but  I  am 
sure  the  last  name  was  not  Sorensen.  Why  do 
you  ask?" 

"Because  I  knew  a  Ruth  Sorensen;  in  fact, 
I  know  her  now,  and  I  thought  she  told  me  she 
had  done  some  work  for  you  once;  and  it  is  my 
recollection  she  said  it  was  housekeeping." 

"No.  I'm  sure  of  that.  She,  or  you,  must  be 
mistaken." 

"I  am  going  to  bring  her  to-morrow,  if  you 
don't  mind;  because,  if  she  is  a  'fib-teller',  I  want 

Seventy-four 


to  know  it,  and  I  have  reasons  for  wanting  to 

know." 

"I   certainly  haven't  any  objections,    I'm 

sure,  provided  you  do  not  embarrass  me  in  the 

matter,  whatever  your  idea  may  be." 

"I'll  promise  not  to  embarrass  you." 
"That  is  sufficient  in  this  mystery,  shall  I 

call  it?    Am  I  to  learn  the  meaning  finally?" 

*«  v  " 

You  may. 

The  door  closed,  and  the  old  man  was  be 
fore  the  fire  again, — Teddy,  at  his  feet,  asleep; 
Tabs  in  his  usual  place,  on  the  lounge.  In  a  little 
while,  smoke  curled  from  a  pipe,  and,  soon,  all 
three  were  asleep. 

***** 

"Can  I  introduce  Ruth  Sorensen  to  you? 
And  this  is  her  husband." 

"Interesting  disclosures!  What  is  the  mean 
ing  of  all  this?" 

"Very  simple.  You  are  the  victim." — from 
Ruth  Sorensen. 

"This  is  my  husband,  as  sister  told  you. 
Some  months  ago,  mother  died,  and  sister  came 
here  for  work.  Father  died  some  years  ago.  Sis 
ter  knew  of  my  having  kept  house  for  you,  and 
so,  she  came  to  see  you.  We  did  not  know  she 
was  doing  it,  until  the  other  day,  when  she  wrote 
us.  Last  night,  we  got  a  telephone  message  from 
her  to  come  up  here  to-day,  and  she  insisted 
that  I  bring  Mr.  Sorensen  with  me.  When  we  get 
here,  we  are  told  about  you,  and  sister  told  me  the 
story  of  last  night.  She  thinks  she  has  found  a 
solution.  Will  is  the  general  manager  of  the  lum 
ber  mills,  just  below  here;  and  sister  doesn't  see 
why  we  can't  keep  house  for  you,  you  contrib 
uting  the  house,  and  we  paying  for  everything 

Seventy-five 


else.  See  what  a  business  woman  I've  gotten  to 
be;  and  I  think  we  can  afford  to  keep  your  old 
servant,  Dinah,  too." 

"What  is  'sister'  going  to  do,  as  you  term 
her, — my  stranger?" 

"She  insists  on  staying  where  she  is.  She 
thinks  she  is  an  'old  maid." 

"Well,  old  maids  and  old  bachelors  ought  to 
get  on  fairly  well  together,  and  I  think  two  of 
them  will  have  to  try." 

Mr.  Sorensen  smiled. 

The  old  man  has  never  known  very  much  of 
moisture  about  the  eyes.  He  smiles  too  much. 
His  remark  was, 

"I  think  I  will  have  some  comforts  in  my 
old  age.  Teddy,  these  are  your  new  mistress  and 
master." 


Seventy-six 


THE  SWAN  SONG. 

I  am  listening  to  the  strains  of  the  Swan 
Song. 

The  beautiful,  harmless  bird,  that  would 
otherwise  float  so  gracefully  about,  for  men  to 
look  upon,  and  even  now  floats  so  gracefully 
about,  is  wounded  unto  death. 

"Why  should  I  be  wounded,"  it  seems  to 
say,  "I,  that  harm  no  one?" 

A  faint  streak  of  blood  trickles  down  its 
snow-white  neck.  It  tries  proudly  to  hold  its 
head  up.  It  succeeds  for  a  while,  but  the  wound 
is  mortal.  It  floats  a  little.  There  is  a  slight  move 
ment  of  its  body,  as  it  struggles,  still,  to  keep 
alive. 

Slowly,  the  life-blood  ebbs  away.  The 
wound  is  fatal.  A  last  pleading  look,  even  at  the 
huntsman  that  has  wounded  it! 

"I  have  not  harmed  you;"  it  seems  to  say 
again,  and  with  pity,  not  hate,  "but  it  is  done, 
nevertheless." 

The  head  drops,  and  then  the  neck  falls 
across  the  body,  and  then  into  the  water.  The 
harmless,  snow-white  swan  is  dead. 


Seventy-seven 


PAUL  CHARLES  MORPHY. 

A  Study  of  His  Person.  * 

"On  a  beautiful  sunshiny  day  in  June,  1858, 
I  was  talking  to  the  late  Mr.  Barnes,  of  Simp 
son's  Divan,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Paul 
Morphy  entered  the  room.  Unlike  some  other 
notabilities,  he  did  not  immediately  unbonnet 
himself  to  display  his  capacious  forehead,  nor 
did  he  pause  and  look  around  to  attract  and  grat 
ify  his  admirers,  but  quietly  and  unobtrusively 
walked  up  the  room  to  the  place  where  we  were 
sitting,  and,  having  shaken  hands  with  my  com 
panion,  sat  down  to  play  him  a  game  of  chess. 

He  was,  literally  speaking,  canopied  with  a 
huge,  broad,  Panama  hat,  and  wore  a  light  suit 
of  clothes,  seemingly  of  fine  grey  linen;  he  was 
neat  in  his  dress  and  gentlemanly  in  demeanor. 
Upon  taking  his  seat  at  the  board,  he  doffed  his 
hat  and  revealed  to  my  sight  a  large  and  well 
proportioned  head.  His  brow  was  remarkably 
fine  and  massive,  broad,  as  well  as  lofty.  His  eyes 
were  dark,  neither  prominent  nor  deeply  set,  but 
very  luminous,  and,  better  still,  very  pleasant 
in  expression.  Just  above  them  rose  those  bumps 
which  are  supposed  to  betoken  the  possession  of 
the  calculating  faculty.  The  lower  part  of  the 
face,  and  particularly  the  firmly  set  jaw,  indi 
cated,  if  not,  obstinacy,  considerable  determina 
tion  of  character.  His  smile  was  delightful;  it 
seemed  to  kindle  up  the  brain-fuel  that  fed  his 
eyes  with  light,  and  it  made  them  shoot  forth 
most  brilliant  rays.  Morphy  was  short  of  stature, 
but  well,  and  even  gracefully,  proportioned, 

Seventy-eight 


Paul  Charles  Morphy. 


save  that  his  hands  and  feet  were  preternatur- 
ally  small,  the  former  being  very  white  and  well 
shaped." 

"Although,  like  Buckle,  Morphy  generally 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  board 
whilst  he  was  playing,  yet,  like  that  gentle 
man,  he  always  looked  up  from  it  as  soon  as  he 
had  a  winning  game,  but  never  with  an  exulting 
or  triumphant  gaze.  He  seldom,  in  fact,  in  my 
presence  never,  expended  more  than  a  minute  or 
two  over  his  best  and  deepest  combinations.  He 
never  seemed  to  exert  himself,  much  less  to 
cudgel  his  brains,  but  played  with  consummate 
ease,  as  though  his  moves  were  the  result  of  in 
spiration.  I  fancy  he  always  discerned  the  right 
move  at  a  glance,  and  only  paused  before  ma 
king  it,  partly  out  of  respect  for  his  antagonist 
and  partly  to  certify  himself  of  its  correctness, 
to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  and  to  accustom 
himself  to  sobriety  of  demeanor  in  all  circum 
stances." 


*Note.  The  above  description  of  Morphy's  general  appearance 
and  style  of  play  is  taken  from  a  book,  entitled  "Chess  Life- 
Pictures",  written  by  G.  A.  MacDonn«ll,  and  published  in  London 
in  1883.  As  the  observations  are  Mr.  MacDonnell's  personal  ones, 
and  are  couched  in  such  graceful  style,  the  writer  has  concluded  he 
could  not  do  better,  than  to  quote  the  extracts,  in  full.  It  is  desired, 
therefore,  to  acknowledge  distinctly  the  indebtedness  to  Mr.  Mac 
Donnell's  work. 


Seventy^nine 


PAUL  CHARLES  MORPHY. 

A  Biographical  Memoir. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  New 
Orleans,  Louisiana,  on  June  22nd,  1837,  and  he 
died  in  that  city  on  the  afternoon  of  July  10th, 
1884,  in  the  bath-room  of  the  "House,"  now 
known  as  No.  4 1 7  Royal  Street,  which  had  been 
the  family  home  for  very  many  years,  having 
been  bought  by  Morphy's  father  in  1 84 1 .  From 
a  death-notice  of  July  1 1  th,  1 884,  it  appears 
that  Morphy  died  about  half-past  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  of  the  10th.  It  is  assumed  by  the 
writer  that  this  was  fixed  on  as  the  approximate 
time  of  Morphy's  death,  as  far  as  such  could  be 
determined  under  the  precise  circumstances  of 
his  death.  It  had  been  Morphy's  daily  custom 
for  many  years  to  take  the  walk  from  his  home, 
up  Royal  Street  to  Canal  Street,  and  then  about 
Canal  Street  and  the  vicinity,  and  then  back 
home  again,  down  Royal  Street;  and  he  some 
times  did  this  several  times  during  one  day.  Most 
of  those,  who  recalled  Morphy  in  the  later  years 
of  his  life,  almost  always  thought  of  him  taking 
this  walk,  scrupulously  dressed,  and  his  only 
companion  his  slender  walking-stick.  It  was  ap 
proximately  in  the  neighborhood  of  two  o'clock, 
on  July  10th,  when  Morphy  returned  from  one  of 
these  walks,  and,  being  very  warm,  he  impru 
dently  went  to  the  bath-room,  for  a  cold  bath. 
As  he  remained  there  longer  than  seemed  nat 
ural  to  his  mother,  she  became  alarmed.  Going 
to  the  bath-room,  she  called  to  her  son,  from 
whom  she  received  no  answer.  Finding  the  door 

Eighty 


locked,  she  then  hurried  to  one  of  the  neighbors 
for  assistance.  The  door  of  the  bath-room  was 
forced,  and  Morphy  was  found  in  the  tub,  dead. 
The  death  is  generally  attributed  to  a  congestion, 
thought  produced  by  Morphy 's  taking  this  bath 
too  soon  after  this  walk,  in  his  overheated  con 
dition.* 

Morphy  was  born  in  the  residence,  now 
known  as  No.  1113  Chartres  Street,  which  sub 
sequently  acquired  additional  distinction  as  the 
home  of  General  Beauregard,  one  of  the  more 
distinguished  generals  of  the  Confederacy,  in  the 
Civil  War.  This  house  can  still  be  seen.  It  sits 
directly  opposite  the  original  Convent,  erected 
for  the  order  of  the  Ursuline  Nuns,  of  which 
they  took  possession  in  the  year  1734,  and  in 
which  they  remained  until  the  middle  of  the  year 
1824.  It  shortly  after  became  the  official  resi 
dence  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Archbishop, 
stationed  at  New  Orleans,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  the 
Archbishopric  of  this  territory,  which  it  con 
tinued  to  be  until  a  few  years  ago.  It  is  now  per 
manently  attached  to  St.  Mary's  Roman  Cath 
olic  Church,  adjoining.  It  was  in  this  building 
that  the  Nuns  prayed  for  the  defeat  of  the  Brit 
ish  in  the  year  1815,  when  the  Battle  of  New 
Orleans  was  being  fought  only  a  few  miles  away, 
between  the  British  troops  and  the  Americans, 
under  "old"  Andrew  Jackson,  helped  by  some  of 
the  "tiger-like"  fighters  of  the  pirate  band  of 

*For  the  benefit  of  the  curiously  Inclined,  the  writer  obtained 
the  reports  of  the  Weather  Bureau  for  that  day,  July  10th,  1884. 
These  reports  showed  a  temperature,  under  Observatory  conditions, 
that  is,  not  in  the  sun,  of  90  degrees  at  3  p.  m.,  the  nearest  period 
of  observation  at  that  time,  with  the  sky  then  partly  cloudy.  The 
reports  also  showed  two  thunderstorms  during  the  day,  one  in  the 
morning  and  one  in  the  evening,  both  attended  by  rainfall,  indicat 
ing  the  presence  of  much  humidity  in  the  atmosphere  throughout 
the  day. 

Eighty-one 


Jean  Lafitte,  whom  Jackson  had  "pardoned",  as 
it  were,  for  the  purpose  of  this  battle.  It  is  said 
that  the  bravery  of  these  pirates,  in  this  battle, 
so  impressed  Jackson,  whose  admiration  for  a 
fighter  was  characteristic,  that  he  never  failed 
to  stop  and  chat  with  any  one  of  them,  that  he 
might  come  upon.  Two  facts,  in  passing,  con 
nected  with  this  battle,  not  invariably  known, 
might  be  interesting  to  the  reader.  One  is,  that 
the  American  troops  did  not  fight  in  the  Battle 
of  New  Orleans  from  behind  cotton  bales,  some 
current  supposition,  a  little  romance,  and  some 
"history",  to  the  contrary.  A  few  bales  of  cotton 
were  used  originally  in  places,  supposedly  to 
strengthen  parts  of  the  earthworks,  hurriedly 
thrown  up  by  the  Americans,  about  a  mile  long, 
but  the  fire  of  the  British  soon  set  these  aflame, 
and  the  troops  quickly  threw  the  bales  aside,  as 
evident  sources  of  danger  rather  than  protection, 
finding,  as  we  regret  to  have  to  comment,  from 
experiences  only  too  recent,  that  "terra  firma" 
was  the  real  protection.  The  paraphernalia  of  the 
battle  was  the  usual  "fodder", — men,  weapons, 
horses,  possibly  some  mules,  an  embankment,  in 
which,  as  stated,  a  few  bales  of  cotton  had  orig 
inally  been  placed,  but  which  were  soon  taken 
out,  the  open  field,  and  some  trees.  The  use  of  the 
few  bales  started  the  romances,  together  with  the 
pictures,  even,  where  the  guns  protrude  from  be 
tween,  and  behind,  cotton  bales,  and  men  are 
engaged  in  mortal  combat  on  their  tops.  The 
other  observation,  to  which  the  histories  do  not 
always  specifically  direct  attention,  is  that  the 
battle  was  actually  fought  about  two  weeks 
after  the  Treaty  of  Peace  had  been  signed  by 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States,  the  news 
not  actually  reaching  Jackson  until  February 

Eighty-two 


1 3th,  1815,  over  a  month  after  the  fighting  of  the 
battle,  and  a  month  and  a  half  after  the  actual 
signing  of  the  Articles  of  Peace, — an  interesting 
testimonial  to  the  speed  with  which  news  trav 
eled  in  those  days,  as  compared  with  the  pres 
ent.  The  house,  in  which  Morphy  died,  is,  of 
course,  directly  opposite  the  building,  known  as 
the  New  Courthouse.  Among  other  public  uses, 
to  which  the  building  is  put,  is  that  of  "housing" 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State, — the  building, 
in  this  way,  becoming  the  State's  "Temple  of 
Justice."  Morphy 's  birth,  therefore,  from  its 
"religious  setting,"  as  it  were,  passes,  in  the 
thought  of  the  house  in  which  he  died,  to  the 
"judicial  setting,"  with  but  one  distinction,  ap 
parent  to  the  observer,  that  the  building,  in 
which  Morphy  had  his  birth,  sits  opposite,  and 
on  a  substantial  level  with,  the  religious  edifice 
it  faces,  while  the  house,  in  which  he  died,  also 
sits  opposite,  but  rather  in  the  "shadow",  as  it 
were,  of  the  "Temple  of  Justice." 

Paul  Charles  Morphy,  who  is  known  al 
most  everywhere  merely  as  Paul  Morphy,  on  his 
father's  side,  came  of  Spanish  descent,  traced 
originally  from  Irish  sources,  the  original  name 
appearing,  from  the  family  coat  of  arms,  to  have 
been  O'Murphu,  next  O'Murphy,  and  then  the 
familiar  Murphy,  simply.  Sometime  during  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  writer  could  not  state 
positively  the  exact  date,  but  undoubtedly  after 
the  accession  to  the  English  throne  of  the  first  of 
the  Hanoverian  dynasty,  and  following  the  fall  of 
the  House  of  Stuart,  Morphy's  more  immediate 
ancestors  emigrated  from  Ireland,  being,  no 
doubt,  among  those  self-exiles,  whose  emigration 
starts,  substantially,  with  the  downfall  of  the 
House  of  Stuart,  and  continues  throughout  the 

Eighty-three 


rebellious  movements,  that  have  subsequently 
marked  Ireland's  career.  Many  of  these  exiles,  or 
refugees,  whichever  they  might  be,  went  to 
France  and  Spain,  as  is  well  known;  and  it  is  as  a 
resident  of  Madrid,  Spain,  that  we  come  upon 
Don  Diego  Morphy,  Sr.,  Paul's  grandfather.  The 
Spaniards,  having  found  the  "u",  of  Murphy, 
troublesome  to  pronounce,  changed  it  into  the 
letter,  "o",  pronouncing  the  name  as  though 
spelled  "Morfee."  That  is  the  history  of  the  pres 
ent  name,  Morphy.  The  Irish  associations  of 
Morphy's  grandfather  are  still  more  clearly 
indicated  by  the  name  of  his  first  wife,  Mollie 
Creagh,  which  would  lead  to  an  easy  inference 
that  Morphy's  grandfather,  with  that  particular 
wife,  were  the  actual  persons  to  leave  Ireland, 
which  would  place  that  emigration  somewhere  in 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  the 
writer  learns,  on  such  data  as  can  be  found,  to 
be  supposedly  the  approximate  time  of  this  emi 
gration.  In  1  793,  Morphy's  grandfather  appears 
a  resident  of  Cape  Francis,  Santo  Domingo;  and, 
from  there  again,  with  his  first  wife,  Mollie 
Creagh,  he  was  driven  out  by  the  well  known 
"San  Domingo  revolt",  contemporaneous  with 
the  French  Revolution  of  1  793.  This  wife  escaped 
from  the  Island  by  going  aboard  an  English  vessel, 
lying  in  the  harbor,  disguised  as  a  seller  of  vege 
tables,  with  her  infant  son,  Don  Diego,  Jr.,  hid 
den  in  the  basket,  which  appeared  filled  with 
cabbages.  The  two  sailed,  with  the  vessel,  to 
Philadelphia;  and  mother  and  son  were  later 
joined  there  by  the  father,  Don  Diego  Morphy, 
Sr.,  who  escaped  from  the  Island  on  a  vessel 
bound  for  Charleston.  From  Philadelphia,  Don 
Diego  Morphy,  Sr.,  moved,  with  his  first  wife 
and  their  child,  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 

Eighty-four 


where  the  first  wife  died.  Don  Diego  Morphy,  Sr., 
then  married  Louise  Peire,  whom  he  met  in  Char 
leston,  who  was,  herself,  the  descendant  of  a 
French  Huguenot.  By  this  second  marriage,  four 
children  were  born,  and  one  of  these  children, 
Alonzo  Michael  Morphy,  known  generally  as 
Alonzo  Morphy,  simply,  became  the  father  of 
Paul,  the  subject  of  this  sketch.  From  Charleston, 
Don  Diego  Morphy,  Sr.,  came  to  New  Orleans, 
with  his  family,  which  included,  at  this  time, 
Paul's  father,  then  very  young.  Some  of  the  vicis 
situdes  of  fate,  therefore,  as  well  as  the  funda 
mentally  rebellious  character  of  the  "stock", 
from  which  Paul  sprung,  appear  on  the  horizon 
at  the  very  beginning  of  our  first  definite  knowl 
edge  of  his  ancestry.  This  is  added  to  in  Paul's 
mother,  whom  Paul's  father,  Alonzo,  met  and 
married  in  New  Orleans.  She  was  of  French  de 
scent,  and  her  family  had  come  to  the  United 
States  by  way  of  the  West  Indies,  also.  Her 
name,  which  is  as  sacred  as  that  of  the  father, 
was  Thelcide  Louise  Le  Carpentier. 

The  "geographical  drift",  as  it  were,  of 
Morphy's  ancestry,  on  his  father's  side,  is  very 
clearly  indicated  by  the  father's  name,  Alonzo 
Michael  Morphy,  in  the  Spanish  "Alonzo",  a 
"given"  name,  the  Irish  "Michael",  and  the 
family-name,  "O'Murphu",  next  "O'Murphy", 
and  subsequently  "Murphy",  with  its  Spanish 
pervert,  "Morphy".  After  reading  law  under 
Edward  Livingston,  one  of  Louisiana's  most  fa 
mous  jurists,  and  later  entering  the  practice  of 
that  profession,  Alonzo  Morphy,  himself,  at 
tained  to  distinction  in  the  State,  twice  becom 
ing  a  member  of  the  legislature,  also  attorney- 
general  of  the  State,  and  finally  a  member  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of  Louisiana.  He 

Eighty-five 


died  in  the  year  1 856,  just  a  little  too  early  to  see 
his  son  reach  really  to  "fame"  in  the  chess  world, 
which  might  be  said  to  begin  with  the  son's  ap 
pearance  in  the  American  Chess  Congress,  con 
vened  in  New  York  in  October,  of  1857.  It  was 
the  father,  who,  first  noticing  the  son's  singular  in 
terest  in  the  game,  and,  gradually,  his  precocious 
powers  for  it,  then  seriously  began  to  teach  his 
son  the  moves  of  the  game  and  the  comparative 
value  of  the  pieces.  It  might  be  interesting  to  ask 
whether  he  would  have  done  so,  had  he  been  able 
to  foresee  his  son's  entire  career,  assuming,  more 
particularly,  that  the  unpremeditated  "diver 
sion",  as  so  intended,  of  chess,  turned  Morphy's 
entire  career,  bringing,  after  the  transitory  flight 
of  "chess-genius",  the  long  years  of  gloom  to 
Morphy,  ending,  according  to  the  writer's  judg 
ment,  in  such  ultimate  impairment  of  Morphy's 
mind,  as  did  appear.  In  the  light  of  all  Morphy's 
history,  would  a  Solomon  have  decided  this,  in 
advance?  And,  who  would  undertake  to  decide 
such  a  question  now?  Do  you  suppose  the  in 
dividual  could  decide  it?  There  is  another 
thought  to  which  the  father  is  entitled,  before  we 
leave  him  for  the  son.  Decided  rightly  or  wrongly, 
and  by  premeditation  or  accident,  he  did  not  see, 
as  we  have  indicated,  anything  but  practically 
faint  forebodings  of  powers  in  his  son,  which,  in 
the  fondest  dreams  of  a  parent,  he  could  hardly 
have  felt  were  to  lead  where  they  did,  and  whose 
development  must  certainly  largely  be  attributed 
to  the  father,  through  his  early  personal  encour 
agement, — another  of  those  ironical  workings  of 
fate,  as  common  as  they  are  sometimes  inevita 
ble,  and  almost  a  proper  introduction  to  Mor 
phy's  own  life.  To  Reality,  the  Thought  is  every 
thing:  the  Individual,  nothing. 

Eighty-six 


Paul  Charles  Morphy  was  given  the  usual 
educational  advantages  of  his  period,  and  he 
came  to  speak  four  languages  fluently,  French, 
English,  Spanish,  and  German.  He  was  first 
sent  to  a  local  institution,  in  New  Orleans,  and 
then  to  St.  Joseph's  College,  at  Spring  Hill,  Ala 
bama,  where  he  was  graduated,  with  the  high 
est  honors,  in  1854.  He  remained  one  year  after 
that,  however,  during  which  time  his  attention 
was  given  almost  exclusively  to  the  study  of  law 
and  mathematics, — an  interesting  combination, 
even  to  the  casual  observer,  and  full  of  meaning 
to  those  familiar  with  his  life.  Morphy  was  gradu 
ated  from  the  law  department  of  the  University 
of  Louisiana  in  1857,  and  was  subsequently  ad 
mitted  to  practice.  In  this  way,  that  is,  by  his 
graduation  in  law  and  his  entry  in  the  American 
Chess  Congress  at  New  York,  both  in  1857,  and 
within  a  few  months  of  each  other,  Morphy 
launched  himself,  as  it  were,  at  one  and  the  same 
time,  into  those  two  warring  destinies  of  his  life. 
Who  can  say  whether  he  made  the  choice,  or 
that  Unseen  Hand  of  Fate,  which  seems  to  guide 
the  destinies  of  the  Great,  more  particularly? 
Was  that  the  unsuspected  parting  of  the  ways? 
It  was.  After  finishing  this  sketch,  the  reader 
might  like  to  ask  himself  what  would  have  been 
his  decision  in  such  a  situation. 

Turning  now  more  particularly  to  the  his 
tory  of  his  chess  development  and  career,  we 
find  the  father,  as  we  have  previously  suggested, 
teaching  the  son  the  moves  and  general  prin 
ciples  of  the  game,  when  the  boy  was  but  ten 
years  of  age.  At  twelve  and  thirteen  years  of  age, 
he  had  already  defeated  some  of  the  strongest 
players  of  the  United  States,  and  also  Lowenthal, 
one  of  the  chess  masters  of  Europe,  who  at  that 

Eighty-seven 


time  happened  to  be  in  New  Orleans  on  a  visit ; — 
though  Lowenthal  not  then  being  well,  undue 
emphasis  was  not  placed  on  this  victory.  Lowen 
thal  was,  of  course,  subsequently  defeated,  when 
"in  form",  in  the  European  tour  of  Morphy,  nine 
years  later,  as  with  all  other  opponents,  most 
decisively;  and  one  accepts,  without  much  dif 
ficulty,  the  "budding  genius"  of  Morphy,  reflect 
ed  in  this  first  defeat  of  Lowenthal,  who  became, 
in  time,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  commentators 
on  Morphy's  game  and  genius.  In  1857,  when 
twenty  years  of  age,  Morphy  went  to  New  York, 
to  attend  the  first  American  Chess  Congress.  In 
summing  up  Morphy's  accomplishment  at  that 
Congress,  the  chess  expert  would  undoubtedly  use 
stronger  language  than  the  writer  of  this  sketch. 
Of  97  "even"  games  played  by  Morphy,  that  is, 
without  giving  his  opponents  "odds",  and  ex 
cluding  the  consultation  game,  Morphy  lost  4, 
"drew"  8,  and  won  85.  As  would  be  gathered, 
the  victory  was  so  complete  and  brilliant  that  the 
former  opponents  would  have  nothing  but  that 
the  victor,  over  them,  must  at  once  invade  that 
stronghold  of  chess,  the  Old  World,  or  Europe, 
and  conquer  the  masters  of  that  hemisphere  in 
the  same  way  that  he  had  vanquished  the  play 
ers  of  America;  and  they  seemed  to  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  he  would.  And  so,  he  did. 

A  curious  spectacle,  this  youth  of  twenty- 
one  presented,  starting  to  Europe  in  the  last 
days  of  May,  1 858,  after  having  spent  the  inter 
val  between  the  closing  of  the  Chess  Congress  in 
New  York  and  this  departure  for  Europe,  in 
New  Orleans.  As  remarked  by  some  observer, 
the  thought  of  a  chess  champion  from  America 
at  that  time  was  fundamentally  ludicrous,  and 
such  suggestion  would  undoubtedly  have  pro- 

Eighty-eight 


voked  outright  derision  in  the  European  chess 
firmament,  were  it  not  for  the  earnestness  with 
which  the  claims  for  Morphy  were  put  forward, 
and  the  most  unbelievable  character  of  these 
claims.  As  it  developed,  it  is  interesting  to  read 
the  rather  delicate  and  graceful  references,  on 
most  sides,  to  Morphy 's  anticipated  coming,  and 
the  growth  of  criticism  as  Morphy 's  play  opened 
out.  Under  the  pressure  of  fellow-players,  there 
fore,  admiring  friends  and  relatives,  with  the 
distinct  purpose  of  meeting  Staunton,  the  Eng 
lish  player,  who  had  declined  to  come  to  America 
to  meet  him,  and  with  the  avowed  object  of  de 
feating  the  "old"  masters  of  Europe,  the  young 
knight,  not  like,  but  exactly,  entering  a  tourna 
ment,  (with  no  "play"  on  the  word),  starts  for 
the  Old  World,  to  do  battle,  his  plume  only  fresh 
ly  waving,  and  unheralded,  as  remarked  sub 
stantially  by  one  of  the  English  journals,  except 
by  "fugitive  paragraphs"  from  the  American 
press  and  the  unbelievable  claims  of  ardent  ad 
mirers.  Morphy  seemed  to  have  no  doubt,  him 
self,  that  he  would  succeed,  though  he  advanced 
the  thought  to  those  more  intimate  with  him  in 
his  characteristically  modest  way.  The  writer 
feels  that  it  takes  almost  a  genius,  himself,  to 
understand  this  situation,  and  Morphy's  atti 
tude  towards  it. 

Lowenthal  says  that  this  European  triumph 
could  be  described  in  three  words,  the  celebrated 
Latin,  of  the  Roman  Conqueror,  "Veni,  vidi, 
vici",  ("I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquered"),  and  that  it 
could  end  there.  Certainly,  it  would  express  fully 
the  accomplishment.  The  "tournament"  was 
an  "interesting"  one,  and  it  wound  up  by  all  of 
the  knights  "of  old",  except  one,  who  was  never 
able  to  get  into  action,  except  with  a  companion, 

Eighty-nine 


when  he  was  twice  defeated,  (Mr.  Staunton), 
taking  off  their  helmets,  as  they  got  down  from 
their  steeds,  and  saluting  the  victor,  who  was  still 
on  his, — a  most  gracious  ending  to  a  situation,  se 
rious,  as  it  were,  while  it  lasted.  The  more  gener 
ous  ones,  and  they  were  much  in  the  ascendancy, 
vied  in  the  glowing  character  of  their  tributes  to 
Morphy.  The  press,  as  might  be  gathered  from 
a  quotation  later  in  this  sketch,  was  outspoken 
in  the  recognition  of  Morphy's  genius.  The 
French  enthusiasm  wound  up  in  a  testimonial 
celebration,  at  which  a  bust  of  Morphy,  the 
work  of  the  sculptor  Lequesne,  himself  a  player, 
was  crowned  by  the  French  players  with  laurel. 
In  the  midst  of  all  this,  contemporary  publica 
tions,  in  England  and  on  the  Continent,  found 
it  possible  to  speak  of  any  sting  of  defeat  as 
being  lessened  by  the  youthful  dignity,  simplic 
ity,  and  charm  of  manner,  of  the  vanquisher. 
Can  the  writer  stop  to  pay  merited  tribute  to 
parentage,  rearing,  and  education,  and  to  one 
of  the  attributes  of  genius  itself?  This  last 
thought  is  struck  by  Mr.  Edge,  Morphy's  secre 
tary  throughout  the  European  tour,  from  another 
side,  as  it  were,  in  a  sentence  used  by  Mr.  Edge 
in  another  connection,  his  and  Morphy's  first 
sight  of  Paris  and  the  Seine,  supposedly  the 
Mecca  of  all  Frenchmen  away  from  there,  "Mor 
phy  is  never  betrayed  into  rhapsody,  and  what 
he  felt  he  didn't  speak", — a  thought  worth 
dwelling  on,  and  characteristic  of  many  other 
periods  of  Morphy's  life. 

The  writer  supposes  he  is  safe  in  saying  that 
Anderssen,  the  German  expert,  was  the  strongest 
of  the  opponents  Morphy  met  on  his  European 
tour,  and  possibly  the  strongest  opponent  Mor 
phy  ever  met.  Not  being  himself  a  player  of  the 

Ninety 


p, 
3 

* 


game,  he  attempts  to  qualify  the  statement,  in  a 
measure,  but,  he  takes  it,  he  is  substantially  cor 
rect.  If  this  be  true,  it  accords  with  the  wonder 
fully  generous  character  of  Anderssen  in  defeat. 
We  shall  later  make  an  extract  from  one  of 
Anderssen's  letters,  referring  to  Morphy,  of  a 
more  or  less  serious  nature.  For  this  reason,  in 
part,  the  writer  feels  more  at  liberty  to  quote 
some  of  the  humorous  incidents,  connected  with 
the  encounters  between  Anderssen  and  Morphy, 
not  only  as  bits  of  pleasantry  in  themselves,  but 
also  as  the  proverbial  true  words,  spoken  in  jest, 
strikingly  illustrating  Anderssen's  conception  of 
the  strength  of  Morphy's  play. 

"You  are  not  playing  anything  like  as  well 
as  with  Dufresne",  remarked  one  individual,  who 
had  been  somewhat  skeptical  of  Morphy's  super 
iority  from  the  beginning. 

"No",  replied  Anderssen,  "Morphy  won't 
let  me".  He  then  added,  with  that  rapid  turn  to 
the  serious,  of  which  almost  every  fine  mind  is 
somehow  capable," It  is  no  use  struggling  against 
him ;  he  is  like  a  piece  of  machinery,  which  is  sure 
to  come  to  a  certain  conclusion".  At  another 
time,  he  remarked,  "Nobody  can  hope  to 
gain  more  than  a  game,  now  and  then,  from 
him".  To  those, who  offered  Anderssen  a  consola 
tion  in  defeat,  for  which  he  did  not  ask,  telling 
him  that  he  "should"  have  won,  not  an  uncom 
mon  remark  to  the  defeated,  Mr.  Edge  says  that 
he  has  seen  Anderssen  smilingly  answer,  time  and 
again,  "Tell  that  to  Mr.  Morphy".  And,  at 
another  time,  after  defeating  Harrwitz,  who  was 
one  of  the  few  to  hold  a  "sore  spot"  after  be 
ing  defeated  by  Morphy,  and  who  practically 
thereafter  avoided  him,  Anderssen,  on  being 
complimented  upon  this  victory  as  he  was  about 

Ninety-one 


to  leave  Paris,  after  being  himself  defeated  by 
Morphy,  remarked,  "Oh,  there  is  but  one  Mor- 
phy  in  the  world".  These  were  some  of  An- 
derssen's  tributes  to  the  subject  of  this  sketch, 
as  true,  as  they  were  generous  in  character. 

Journod  spoke  of  Morphy 's  games  as  "dis 
gustingly  correct". 

Boden  spoke  of  Morphy 's  "diabolical  stead 
iness",  substantially  the  same  thing. 

One  of  Lowenthal's  tributes  to  Morphy's 
European  tour  was  this:  "The  triumph  of  the 
young  master  did  not  produce  any  feeling  of  jeal 
ousy.  His  superiority  was  so  evident,  that  all 
idea  of  rivalry  was  at  once  felt  absurd". 

With  every  chess  master  of  Europe  defeated, 
except  Staunton,  the  English  player,  who  declin 
ed  individual  competition  with  Morphy,  pla 
cing  it  on  the  ground  of  temporary  unfitness, 
which  literary  pre-occcupation  prevented  his  at 
tempting  to  remedy,  until  the  defense  and  the 
deferrings  of  a  meeting  with  Morphy  riled  the 
press  of  even  his  own  country,  but  whom  Morphy 
did  beat  in  two  consultation  games,  the  only  ones 
played  with  him,  and,  knowing  the  spirit  in 
which  Morphy  had  started  upon  this  European 
tour,  is  it  any  wonder  that  Mr.  Edge,  Morphy's 
secretary  throughout  this  tour,  in  writing  of  the 
contemplated  departure  of  Morphy  and  him 
self  from  Europe  on  Morphy's  long  delayed  re 
turn  "home"  to  enter  the  practice  of  law,  should 
have  been  able  to  remark,  Morphy  then  seemed 
to  develop  a  "positive  distaste"  for  the  game?  It 
was  natural.  The  challenge  must  have  been  a 
mixture  of  friends,  relatives,  admirers,  some 
French  and  Spanish  pride,  not  forgetful,  either, 
of  Irish  traits,  all  in  a  youth  in  addition;  un 
doubtedly  also  the  spurrings  of  genius,  and, 

Ninety-two 


specifically,  besides,  the  meeting  of  Staunton ; — 
in  effect,  a  test  of  accomplishment,  practically  a 
feat  of  mind.  It  might  be  added,  more  particular 
ly  for  the  lay  reader,  that  it  is  conceded,  practi 
cally  beyond  dispute,  that  Morphy  would  have 
defeated  Staunton  in  individual  contest,  as  he 
had  defeated  him  in  two  consultation  games. 
Among  other  things,  Staunton  had  met  more 
or  less  decisive  defeat  at  the  hands  of  some, 
decisively  defeated  by  Morphy,  notably  Anders- 
sen,  as  in  the  International  Chess  Tournament 
of  1851.  The  general  character  of  the  play  of 
the  two  men,  however,  as  substantially  testified 
to  by  Mr.  MacDonnell,  an  English  chess  critic, 
writing  in  1883,  who  writes  of  both  Staunton 
and  Morphy,  and  where  he  speaks  of  Morphy 
as  "the  greatest  king  that  ever  swayed  the 
sceptre  of  chess"  and  as  "Perpetual  President 
of  Our  world- wide  Republic",  ought  in  itself 
to  be,  as  it  is  generally  considered,  sufficient 
evidence  of  the  relative  strength  of  the  two 
players  and  of  what  would  have  been  the  re 
sult  of  a  contest,  in  individual  play,  between 
Staunton  and  Morphy,  with  Staunton  at  his  best. 

Morphy  realized  more  clearly  than  ever  in 
Europe,  the  stronghold  of  chess,  that,  as  illustri 
ous  a  game  as  it  was,  and  as  exacting  in  its  re 
quirements  as  it  was,  the  game,  even  there,  as 
was  sometimes  demonstrated  by  the  difficulty  in 
arranging  matches,  was  a  gentleman's  "avoca 
tion",  and  that  it  was  not,  and  undoubtedly,  to 
his  mind,  should  not  be  made,  one's  vocation,  or 
life's  work.  This  had  been  passed  on  by  him,  so  he 
thought,  in  taking  up  the  study  of  law,  and  had 
been  stamped,  as  it  were,  by  his  attainment  to 
the  qualifications  for  practice.  He  was,  therefore, 
determined  to  get  back  "home",  and  start  upon 

Ninety-three 


his  profession.  Those,  familiar  with  the  difficulty 
Mr.  Edge  had  in  holding  Morphy  in  Europe  un 
til  after  the  closing  games  with  Anderssen  and 
Mongredieu,  and  the  almost  absurd  things  to 
which  Mr.  Edge  had  to  resort  until  after  these 
closing  games  had  been  played,  will  know  Mor 
phy 's  attitude  towards  returning  to  New  Or 
leans.  When  Edge  remarked  that  Morphy  would 
"not"  go  without  playing  the  games,  more  par 
ticularly  with  Anderssen,  and  Morphy  asked 
what  would  prevent  him,  Edge  answered, "all  the 
clubs  in  Europe".  Morphy 's  answer  was,  that  he 
would  then  be  "stronger  than  all  Europe". 
"Bravo",  said  Edge,  "that's  spirited,  at  all 
events".  This  led  to  Edge's  subterfuges,  openly 
admitted  by  him,  to  "dilly-dally"  Morphy  along, 
as  it  were,  until  the  meeting  with  Anderssen 
could  be  had,  in  which  Edge  finally  succeeded. 
This  "contest"  between  himself  and  Molrphy  is 
taken  up  in  a  chapter  of  his  work,  headed,  in  the 
thought  of  the  fight  between  them,  "Morphy  gets 
beaten".  The  reference  is  made  here  only  to 
show  Morphy's  attitude  towards  chess,  after  the 
defeat  of  the  European  masters,  and  his  attitude 
towards  his  profession  after  that  time.  The  ex 
tent,  to  which  Mr.  Edge  went  in  his  subter 
fuge,  is  reflected  in  his  having  an  attending 
physician  advise  Morphy  it  would  be  dan 
gerous  for  him,  in  his  supposed  condition  of 
health,  to  cross  the  ocean  in  the  Winter  months, 
in  which  Mr.  Edge  took  advantage  of  a  transi 
tory  condition.  Another  was  to  interest  Morphy 
more  intimately  in  the  social  life  of  Paris,  par 
ticularly  in  music,  which  Mr.  Edge  himself  knew 
to  be  one  of  the  things  for  which  Morphy  was 
particularly  fond, — Morphy,  for  this  purpose, 
being  brought  into  the  intimacy  of  one  of  the 

Ninety-four 


more  celebrated  "salons"  of  Paris.  These  remarks 
are  inserted  to  show  how  bent  Morphy  was  upon 
returning  to  New  Orleans  and  entering  upon  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  and  as  showing  his 
settled  determination  that  law,  and  not  chess, 
was  to  be  his  serious  work  in  life.  Where  genius 
has  decided  for,  or  against,  anything,  strik 
ingly  illustrated  by  Morphy 's  final  attitude  to 
wards  chess,  only  genius,  possibly,  can  know 
what  that  decision  means. 

We  will,  therefore,  merely  recall  the  tri 
umphal  departure  of  Morphy  from  Paris  on 
April  9th,  1 859,  after  the  crowning  of  his  bust  at 
the  celebration  on  April  4th;  his  departure  from 
England  on  April  30th;  and  his  arrival  in  New 
York  on  May  10th,  where  he  was  publicly  re- 
ceiwd  and  acclaimed,  and  where  he  was  pre- 
sent^d,  at  a  gathering  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
with  what  is  said  to  have  been  the  most  expen 
sive  chess  set  ever  made  up  to  that  time,  (the 
writer  does  not  know  of  the  "present  aspect"  of 
this  situation),  the  pieces  being  of  gold  and  sil 
ver,  and  the  board  being  of  rosewood,  inlaid  with 
cornelian.  At  Boston,  a  banquet  was  tendered 
Morphy,  at  which  were  present,  among  other 
notables,  Holmes,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Agas- 
siz,  who  are  reported,  as  could  be  imagined,  to 
have  offered  Morphy  their  warmest  felicitations 
and  congratulations.  The  youth  of  twenty-two 
then  wore  the  unquestioned  "crown"  of  the  chess 
firmament.  As  a  mere  matter  of  figures,  Morphy 's 
record  in  his  European  play,  in  individual  com 
petition,  played  "even",  that  is,  without  giving 
his  opponents  any  "odds",  as  compiled  by  Mr. 
Edge,  his  secretary,  was:  lost  20,  "drew"  14,  and 
won  1 1 8.  This  was  the  record  against  those,  pre- 
termitting  Staunton,  who  were  admittedly  the 

Ninety-five 


chess  masters  of  the  world,  up  to  Morphy's  com 
ing.  Following  the  close  of  his  receptions  in  the 
North,  Morphy  started  for  New  Orleans,  with  the 
thought  of  chess  undoubtedly  left  more  and 
more  behind,  as  he  neared  "home".  Here,  our 
story  turns. 

In  1859,  in  writing  to  Lasa,  a  fellow  chess 
expert,  Anderssen,  in  offering  an  appreciation  of 
Morphy's  play  and  the  impression  this  play  crea 
ted  on  his  mind,  wrote  the  following: 

"I  can  not  better  describe  the  impression 
that  Morphy  made  on  me,  than  by  saying  that 
he  treats  chess  with  the  earnestness  and  con 
scientiousness  of  an  artist.  With  us,  the  exertion 
that  a  game  requires  is  only  a  matter  of  distrac 
tion,  and  lasts  only  as  long  as  the  game  gives  us 
pleasure;  with  him,  it  is  a  sacred  duty.  Never  is  a 
game  of  chess  a  mere  pastime  for  him,  but  always 
a  work  of  vocation,  always  as  if  an  act  by  which 
he  fulfills  part  of  his  mission". 

The  Illustrated  News,  published  in  London, 
had  this  to  say  of  Morphy,  about  the  time  of  his 
leaving  England  for  New  York,  on  April  30th, 
1859;< 

"Reasons,  we  believe,  still  more  cogent, 
(that  is,  than  the  vanquishment  of  the  European 
players,  with  the  exception  of  Staunton,  whose 
roll  we  have  already  noticed),  pressed  him, 
(Morphy) ,  to  leave  Europe.  Mr.  Morphy,  as  we 
have  shown,  does  not  look  upon  chess  as  an  em 
ployment,  but  as  an  amusement,  (this  last  word 
is  probably  a  proper  subject  for  some  qualifica 
tion);  and  he  is  desirous  of  applying  his  intel 
lectual  powers  to  the  profession  he  has  adopted. 
Let  us  hope  that  in  such  sphere  he  may  become 
as  widely  known  and  as  generally  esteemed  as  he 
is  in  what  passes  under  the  description  of  the 

Ninety-six 


'world  of  chess'.  His  success  in  that  sphere  is 
without  a  parallel.  It  is  little  more  than  twelve 
months  since  he  embarked  at  New  York  for  Eng 
land.  Never  was  a  reputation  so  soon  and  so  sol 
idly  established.  He  came  among  us  with  a  local, 
and  returns  with  an  universal,  fame.  His  move 
ments  in  America  were  recorded  in  fugitive 
paragraphs:  his  marvelous  exploits  in  Europe 
will  become  matter  of  history.  If,  to  the  renown 
he  has  achieved  as  a  chess  player,  he  can  add  the 
future  reputation  of  a  great  lawyer,  he  will  sup 
ply  one  of  the  most  curious  and  suggestive  il 
lustrations  of  the  exceptional  versatility  of  gen 
ius  that  humanity  has  produced.  We  have  firm 
belief  that  a  career  of  more  than  national  use 
fulness  is  open  to  Paul  Morphy". 

Could  the  writer  convey  to  the  reader  in  a 
moment  all  the  facts  of  Morphy's  life,  he  would 
then  refer  the  reader  to  the  quotation  that  is 
first  given,  from  Anderssen,  in  the  letter  to  Lasa, 
and,  next,  ask  a  careful  reading  of  the  quotation 
from  the  English  journal.  He  would  then  ask  a 
deep  pondering  over  those  two  extracts,  in  the 
light  of  the  facts  that  he  has,  in  truth,  not  been 
able  to  convey  to  the  reader,  with  reference  to 
Morphy's  life.  With  the  combination  possible, 
the  writer  feels  no  more  satisfactory  explanation 
of  the  partial  impairment,  in  time,  of  Morphy's 
mind  could  be  forthcoming.  The  analysis  of  the 
thought  is  this. 

Anderssen's  extract  breathes,  in  Morphy's 
attitude,  the  "holy  fire"  that  "genius"  always 
breathes,  though,  in  Anderssen's  reference,  the 
play  of  this  rare  faculty,  as  would  be  suspected, 
is  limited  to  its  expression  in  the  game  of  chess. 
What  the  writer  wishes  to  emphasize,  in  the 
thought  under  discussion,  is  the  "fire",  in  Mor- 

Ninety-seven 


phy's  life,  rather  than  the  particular  branch  of  its 
expression.  The  extract  from  the  Illustrated 
News  clearly  holds  the  "index  finger"  to  that 
which  never  left  Morphy's  mind  from  earlier 
years,  even,  and  the  thing  that  became  the  cen 
tral  thought  of  that  mind,  more  particularly 
with  the  vanquishing  of  the  chess  masters  of 
Europe, —  the  practice  of  his  profession  of  law. 
Morphy,  with  all  his  genius,  was  also  human,  and 
he  must  certainly  have  looked  forward,  with  ra 
tional  and  orderly  contemplation,  to  the  pros 
pect,  romantic  if  it  then  was,  of  in  time  a  home, 
children,  and  his  ultimate  adjustment  to  the  nor 
mal  station  of  life.  He  did  not  expect  to  become  a 
Burns  or  Byron,  nor,  from  another  point  of  view, 
a  Paul  Gauguin,  with  the  other  outlet  chess,  nor 
did  he  in  fact  attempt  it,  which  is  an  observation 
substantially  noted  by  some  English  critics,  in 
commending  his  habits;  and  at  the  same  time  he 
undoubtedly  admired  the  grace  and  charm  of  a 
woman's  life,  and  what  it  means,  rightfully  used, 
in  Nature's  scheme.  His  so-called  "admiration" 
for  women,  "empty  love",  whatever  its  character 
in  fact,  often  mentioned  more  particularly  in  con 
nection  with  his  later  life,  was  undoubtedly  the 
forced  reflection  of  the  sincerer  attitude  of  his 
nature.  Returning  now  to  our  original  suggestion, 
combine  the  absorbing  fire  of  genius,  for  such  it 
always  is,  with  the  conscious  recognition  of  its 
own  power  and  its  yearning  for  expression, 
equally  always  present,  with  what  were  now  un 
doubtedly  the  absorbing  hopes  and  aspirations 
of  his  life ;  then  bring  in  disappointment,  coming 
at  first,  no  doubt,  very  slowly;  next,  a  slight 
waking-up,  as  it  were,  to  possibilities,  not  yet  ac 
cepted,  or  acceptable, — the  "fires"  of  genius  un 
doubtedly  still  burning;  next,  a  growing  sense  of 

Ninety-eight 


reality,  on  Morphy's  part,  of  actual  conditions; 
some  physical  ailment,  but  not  of  the  mind;  de 
pendence  upon  relatives;  the  present,  in  daily 
contrast  with   the  past,   reflected  in   the  very 
faces,  words,  conscious  or  unconscious,  and  the 
developing  careers,  of  others,  many  no  doubt 
known  to  him,  whether  intimately  or  not;  his 
prospects  of  anything  worthy  the  name  of  love, 
home,  children,  and  a  place  of  "position",  as  he 
might  have  thought  it,  among  his  fellow-men 
steadily  and  irretrievably  going,  if  not  already 
gone; — carried  unremittingly  and  unrelentlessly 
in  Morphy's  thought  for  not  less  than  fifteen 
years,  and,  undoubtedly,  longer :  and  the  writer 
asks  whether  the  reader  is  still  looking  for  the 
things  that  could  have  impaired  Morphy's  mind, 
to  whatever  degree  in  fact  it  might  have  been  im 
paired,    without  entirely   destroying  his  body. 
It  is  told,  as  a  "joke"  substantially,  that  Mor- 
phy  "cared"  for  one  Creole  "girl",  in  New  Or 
leans,  but  that  she  rejected  him  because  he  was 
"only  a  chess-player",  though  it  is  added  that 
they  were  probably  not  congenial,  in  any  case. 
It  could  seem  certainly  true  that  they  would 
not  have  been  congenial  if   the  woman  could 
make  such  a  remark.  But,  there  could  be  thought 
many  women   who   might  make  that  remark, 
even  if  differently  phrased,  or  not  phrased  at 
all,  especially  as  was  the  case  here,  where  there 
must  remain  the  question  of  support  for  a  wife 
and  children,    and   home  generally,   which 
"genius"   alone  can   not   provide   for,   and  for 
which  it  often  shows,  rightfully  or  wrongfully,  a 
kind  of  contempt.     Women,  who  would  find  an 
alliance  with  Morphy,  under  the  circumstances, 
impracticable,  would  not  be,  and  could  not  be, 
thought  irrational,  whether  their  yearning,  un- 

Ninety-nine 


der  analysis,  might  run  further  in  the  direction 
of  worldly  attainment,  or  not. 

The  writer  can  imagine   that  there  were 
women,   whose  attitude   towards  such  matters 
might  have  been  different;  in  fact,  he  is  quite 
sure  that  there  must  always  be  such,  and  women 
that  would  even  work,  themselves,  in  support 
of  unmistakable  genius.    Such,  however,  is  not 
the  common   thought,  nor  probably  should  it 
be.    Such  a  thought  would  be  galling,  in  the  ex 
treme,  to  any  sensitive  male  mind,  and,  there 
fore,  most  so  to  any  true  genius;  and  would  be 
calculated  to  impair  the  very  efficiency  of  gen 
ius  itself,  unless  that  bodily  impairment,  which 
so  incessantly  reminds  us  of  the  mutual  depend 
ency  of  mind  and  matter,  could  be  the  only  ex 
planation.  The  "situation"   may  change  some 
day,  but  the  writer  is  not  that  much  of  a  prophet. 
As  he  still  sees  things,  the  male  mind  might  suf 
fer  alone,  and  let  its  body  starve,  if  need  be,  but 
it  would  not  consciously  bring  upon  others  any 
share  of  that  suffering  or  any  deprivation  of 
their  ordinarily  accepted  rights  and  claims;  and, 
still  less  so,  where  there  could  be,  in  fact,  any  se 
rious  prospect  that,  in  time,  under  the  ordinary 
criteria  of  human  conduct,  such  individual,  for 
mere  bodily  support,  might  be  expected,  or  called 
on,   to  accept  a  pittance  of  others,  or  accept, 
generously  if  possible,  the  more  grateful  gift  of 
friend  or  relatives.    For  this  reason,  undoubtedly 
in  the  main,  Morphy  never  knew  the  real  mean 
ing  of  a  woman's  love,  nor  the  meaning  of  his 
own  children,  nor  of  his  own  home,  with  the 
pictures,  undoubtedly,  that  he  must  have  built 
of  such,  and  living  for  how  long  a  time  no  one 
can  tell, — in  other  words,  at  his  death,  he  was,  as 
he  had  been  forced  to  be,  a  bachelor. 

One  Hundred 


The  local  public,  also,  could  think  of  Mor- 
phy  as  "only  a  chess-player",  like  the  sweet 
heart.  By  a  poetic  metaphor,  the  World,  proba 
bly,  would  be  charged  with  this  attitude  towards 
him  in  his  chosen  career.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  of 
course,  the  charge  can  be  laid  only  at  the  door  of 
his  own  community,  and,  probably  with  equal 
truth,  at  the  very  doors  of  some  who  spoke  of  his 
chess  greatness,  and,  in  that  connection,  were 
glad  to  claim  such  acquaintance  as  he  could  be 
thought  to  extend  any  one.  The  repudiation, 
however,  to  Morphy,  was  complete,  and  it  ac 
complished,  undoubtedly,  its  unconscious  pur 
pose.  With  no  intention  of  injuring  Morphy,  un 
questionably,  but  with  that  ever  present  con 
scious  and  sub-conscious  regard  for  the  individ 
ual  interest,  sometimes  intelligently,  and  some 
times  unintelligently,  determined,  the  commun 
ity  ever  more  and  more  definitely  repudiated 
Morphy  as  a  lawyer.  It  did  not,  in  fact,  give  Mor 
phy  an  opportunity  to  prove  whether  he  could 
have  developed  into  a  successful  lawyer,  or  not, 
pretermitting  any  question  of  his  rising  to  emi 
nence.  In  Europe,  Morphy 's  chess  attainments 
would  undoubtedly  not  have  affected  his  prac 
tical  outlook  for  life,  in  the  least:  rather,  would 
they  probably  have  brought  him  position,  leav 
ing  it  to  him  to  prove  his  ability,  or  general  fit 
ness  for  the  practice  of  law.  The  extract  from  the 
English  journal,  given  earlier  in  this  sketch, 
very  clearly  reflects  this  attitude;  and  such  was, 
of  course,  the  general  European  attitude  towards 
those  accomplished  in  chess,  as  representative  of 
a  rather  distinctly  high  type  of  mind.  Such,  how 
ever,  one  must  regret  to  say,  was  not  the  attitude 
adopted  towards  Morphy  by  his  own  community, 
which  now  proudly  calls  his  name  as  a  chess- 
One  Hundred  One 


player,  which  was  made  to  become  the  limit  of 
his  attainment.  How  much  fairer  it  would  have 
been,  both  to  itself  and  to  Morphy,  had  at  least 
the  opportunity  been  offered!  At  the  same  time, 
there  would  have  been  presented  one  of  those 
splendid  openings  for  a  demonstration  of  the  pos 
sible  versatility  of  genius,  also  suggested  by  the 
extract  from  the  English  journal,  which  are  sel 
dom  presented,  especially  in  genius  of  the  magni 
tude  of  Morphy 's  chess-genius.  Morphy  came 
slowly  to  recognize  this  growing  isolation,  and, 
in  time,  his  complete  divorce,  substantially, 
from  the  practical  affairs  of  life.  Somewhat  like 
his  bust,  which  had  been  crowned  with  laurel,  in 
Paris,  by  his  enthusiastic  fellow-players,  Mor 
phy,  himself,  was  being  placed  on  a  pedestal, 
whether  the  "players"  around  him  so  contem 
plated,  or  not,  where  he  must  be  content  to  re 
main,  and,  in  this  way,  become  in  effect  a  name, 
particularly  so,  in  the  light  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
conclusively  defeated  the  entire  chess  world,  if 
we  will  be  spared  any  unnecessary  reference  to 
Staunton.  From  Morphy's  point  of  view,  there 
fore,  he  was  to  become  substantially  an  idler  in 
the  practical  affairs  of  life,  and  a  failure,  living  on 
a  name.  Could  anyone  be  expected  to  accept  this 
situation,  especially  a  youth  with  the  fire  of 
genius  within  him,  which,  while  it  may  burn 
more  brightly  in  one  direction,  possibly,  than  in 
another,  certainly  must  never  burn,  as  an  impel 
ling  force  at  least,  only  in  that  direction? 

Morphy,  himself,  undoubtedly  recognized 
this,  and  all  that  it  means.  As  substantially 
stated  in  the  extract  from  the  Illustrated  News, 
Morphy  had  wished,  more  particularly  as  a 
youth,  and  in  his  youth,  for  supremacy  in  the 
world  of  chess;  and,  certainly,  no  one  could  then 

One  Hundred  Two 


MHf 


have  harbored  the  thought,  that  even  complete 
supremacy  in  the  chess  world  was  to  close  the 
door  to  practical  aspiration,  as  it  might  be  term 
ed.  Such  was  not  the  world's  general  attitude 
towards  the  avocation  of  chess,  more  particu 
larly,  and  neither  Morphy,  nor  anyone  else, 
would  have  so  figured  it.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  age,  Morphy  was  then  only  twenty-one  years 
old,  and  it  would  seem  that  even  a  year,  and  at 
the  outset  Morphy  had  expected  it  to  be  not 
more  than  one-half  that  time,  given  to  this  as 
piration  to  meet  the  world  at  chess,  could  hardly 
have  any  appreciable  effect  upon  the  beginning  of 
his  professional  career.  It  must  have  been  re 
garded  as  a  mere  "tour  de  force",  as  it  were,  to 
Morphy  and  all  affiliated  with  him,  or  interested 
in  him,  before  starting  on  his  serious  work  of  life, 
and  to  have  no  bearing,  either  in  time  or  in  effect, 
upon  his  subsequent  career.  How  little  any  one 
realized  what  the  actual  price  would  be,  whether 
Morphy  would  have  been  willing  to  pay  it,  or  not! 
Morphy's  complete  wish,  and  uppermost  wish, 
was  for  successful  attainment  in  the  world  of 
practical  affairs,  and  a  worthy  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  his  father.  There  is  a  spiritual  body, 
but  there  is,  likewise,  a  material  body,  and  hu 
man  beings  can  never  be  expected  to  overlook  the 
claims  of  each.  It  may  be  one  of  the  considera 
tions  of  genius  to  reconcile  the  two.  It  is  not  in 
consistent  with  a  conception  of  genius,  that  the 
thought  to  do  so  might  exist,  nor  even  that  the  at 
tempt  might  be  made.  It  is  a  part  of  the  work  of 
thought  to  reconcile  the  two.  Poets,  priests  of 
mind,  and  thinkers,  generally,  are  the  indefati 
gable  workers  in  that  sublime  trend;  but,  the 
thought  must  be  stopped  here.  Without  any  in 
tended  disparagement  of  the  spiritual  aspects  of 

One  Hundred  Three 


the  practical  phases  of  life,  the  more  purely 
spiritual,  or,  probably  better  phrased,  aesthet 
ic,  side  of  Morphy's  genius,  as  it  were,  had 
reached  in  his  contemplation,  if  not  in  fact,  its 
ascendancy,  as  testified  to  by  all,  completely  satis 
fying  his  yearnings,  or  ambition,  in  that  direc 
tion;  so  that  he  not  only  no  longer  craved  suc 
cess  in  chess,  but  positively  developed  an  aver 
sion  for  the  game.  The  work  of  life,  to  him,  was  to 
become  law,  and  the  attainment,  through  the 
practice  of  that  profession,  of  a  success  which  is, 
and  which  he  desired  to  be,  fundamentally 
worldly  in  character.  The  futility  of  undying  ef 
fort  in  this  life-quest,  while  effort  remained  pos 
sible,  more  strictly  in  the  psychological  sense, 
brought  disaster.  In  the  world  of  chess,  the  mind 
knew  nothing  but  its  own  limitations.  In  law, 
there  were  other  conditions  over  which  Morphy 
had  no  control,  conditions  precedent  to  his  suc 
cess,  as  in  every  career  where  the  opportunities 
for  success  must,  substantially,  be  offered  by 
others,  not  necessarily  recognizant,  as  it  were,  of 
the  individual  potentiality.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  delicate  organism,  expanding  unre 
strictedly  and  in  its  brilliancy  in  the  first  field  of 
endeavor,  where  it  practically  measures  its  own 
power,  should  bring  about  its  own  impairment  in 
the  second,  striving  there,  undoubtedly  too,  with 
a  sacred  fire,  which  must  have  sought  to  fulfill  a 
mission,  but  which  is  repudiated  at  every  turn! 
A  brooding,  uncommunicative  melancholy,  bor 
dering  almost,  if  not  actually,  on  a  feeling  of  per 
secution,  to  express  it  best  to  the  lay  mind,  was 
the  substantial  character  of  that  ultimate  im 
pairment,  — a  silent  reflection,  itself,  of  the  char 
acter  of  the  struggle. 

Is  it  not  natural,  therefore,  that  no  one  can 

One  Hundred  Four 


say,  as  is  universally  conceded,  just  exactly  when 
Morphy's  mind  might  be  thought  to  begin  to 
take  on  such  impairment  as  did  come,  more 
especially  when  the  lay  mind,  making  the  ob 
servation,  is  called  on  to  depend  upon  more  or 
less  vulgar  manifestations  of  the  supposed  im 
pairment?  Whatever  the  situation,  however,  it  is 
certain  the  supposed  impairment  was  long  after 
the  year  1869,  when  Morphy,  throwing  down 
his  last  defiance  to  fate,  played  deliberately  his 
last  game  of  chess  with  his  friend,  Charles  A.  de 
Maurian;  and  Morphy  never  again  played  a 
game  of  chess,  which  he  stated  to  be  his  intention 
when  the  game  was  played.  It  was  then,  finally, 
law,  and  not  chess:  and,  from  the  early  part  of  the 
year  1859,  which  marked  the  conclusion  of  the 
European  tour,  to  the  time  at  which  Morphy 
played  this  last  game,  he  played  comparatively 
little  chess,  and  then  only  with  persons  who  would 
certainly  not  have  considered  they  were  taxing  his 
mind,  if  any  play  could  ever  be  thought  to  have 
taxed  his  mind,  including  his  "blindfold"  play, 
which  has  since  been  repeatedly  exceeded  in  the 
number  of  boards  simultaneously  at  play,  by 
others.  The  blindfold  game  was  then,  of  course, 
comparatively  novel,  and,  in  this  way,  attracted 
uncommon  attention.  Morphy's  play  during  this 
period  was  substantially  casual.  Some  of  it  was 
probably  consciously  played  by  him  as  an  outlet, 
such  as  it  might  be,  from  his  growing  despond 
ency;  and  some  of  it,  almost  unconsciously,  in 
the  spirit  of  any  man,  fired  with  his  spirit,  who 
was  "hoping"  and  "drifting",  as  it  were,  at  the 
same  time.  Think  of  such  contemplations  from 
day  to  day,  over  years,  to  a  mind  of  his  type!  So 
far  as  any  play  might  be  thought  to  have  taxed 
Morphy's  mind,  one  of  the  very  few  remarks  ever 

One  Hundred  Five 


passed  by  Morphy  about  himself,  which  might  be 
deemed  to  border  the  least  on  egotism,  was  one 
he  made  in  the  intimacy  and  privacy  of  conver 
sation  with  his  friend,  Mr.  de  Maurian,  and,  for 
this  reason,  it  could  certainly  be  considered 
privileged.  That  remark,  made  by  Morphy  on 
his  return  from  Europe,  was,  that  he  considered 
he  played  very  poorly,  because  he  played  in  an 
imprudent  manner;  yet,  his  adversaries,  (Jour- 
nod,  Boden,  and  Anderssen  have  been  quoted 
to  that  effect),  spoke  of  the  machine-like  pre 
cision  of  his  play.  Morphy  assigned  as  a  reason 
for  his  having  played  in  the  manner  he  did,  that, 
had  he  not  done  so,  his  opponents  would  not  have 
been  able  to  make  the  showing  they  did.  It  is 
evident  the  remark  was  not  intended  as  pure 
egotism,  from  the  fact  that  Morphy  was  more  or 
less  familiar  with  the  games  of  all  his  opponents, 
and  that,  from  this,  he  concluded  he  could  be, 
perhaps,  somewhat  daring,  as  it  were.  It  was 
shown  that  he  was  correct,  and  some  of  the  posi 
tions  from  which  he  extricated  himself,  resulting 
sometimes  in  a  "drawing",  and  sometimes  in  his 
ultimate  winning,  whether  through  "  counter- 
play",  or  not,  rather  corroborates  Morphy 's  esti 
mate  of  his  play,  as  a  whole,  as  astounding  as  the 
conclusions  appear.  Morphy's  criticism  of  his 
play  to  de  Maurian  is  substantially  confirmed  by 
the  observation  of  Boden,  undoubtedly  one  of 
the  strongest  of  Morphy's  opponents,  and  so 
considered,  the  writer  understands,  by  Morphy 
himself.  The  remark  of  this  player  was,  that  the 
possibilities  of  Morphy's  genius  had  never  been 
half  revealed,  because  only  a  very  limited  exer 
tion  of  its  powers  had  always  been  sufficient  to 
ensure  victory. 

One  Hundred  Six 


Morphy's  estimate  of  his  European  play 
was  passed  at  the  height,  and,  as  it  develops,  at 
the  close  of  his  chess  career,  in  1859,  after  the 
very  hardest  of  his  chess-work,  if  such  it  could 
be  called,  was  over.  From  that  time,  until  the  end 
of  the  year  1869,  when  Morphy  played  his  last 
game,  the  play  was  entirely  casual,  as  has  been 
suggested,  and  no  one,  during  that  period,  or  at 
its  close,  would  have  considered  for  a  moment 
Morphy  was  not  in  entire  possession  of  his  mental 
faculties.  This  statement,  alone,  should  be  suffici 
ent  to  end  the  supposition  that  Morphy's  mind 
was  impaired,  still  less  "lost",  playing  chess.  As 
suggested,  his  mind  undoubtedly  did  lose  some  of 
its  original  efficiency,  though  how  much  no  one, 
including  the  writer,  can,  or  should,  attempt,  to 
say.  The  fact,  that  his  mind  was  to  some  extent 
impaired,  coupled  with  the  general  ignorance  of 
actual  conditions  on  the  part  of  outsiders,  more 
particularly,  added  to  the  universally  known 
fact  that  Morphy  "played  chess",  was  the 
"world's  champion",  as  it  were,  using  our  mod 
ern  well-known  expression,  has  undoubtedly  led 
to  this  very  easy  deduction  for  the  outsider, 
with  whom  generally  rests  the  reputation,  that 
Morphy,  first,  "lost"  his  mind,  and,  next,  that 
he  "lost"  it,  "playing  chess".  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  ease  with  which  the  thought  could  be 
constructed  by  the  casual  observer,  and  by 
those  attracted  by  "romance",  as  it  were,  is  so 
evident,  that,  as  often  happens  in  such  situations, 
the  ultimate  conclusion  develops  in  inverse  ratio, . 
very  largely,  to  the  truth.  Mr.  de  Maurian,  pos 
sibly  the  most  intimate  of  Morphy's  friends,  and 
the  one  with  whom  Morphy,  as  we  have  men 
tioned,  played  his  last  game  of  chess,  always  re 
sented,  so  the  writer  is  informed,  the  statement 

One  Hundred  Seven 


that  Morphy's  mind  became  impaired  by  chess- 
playing,  denying  the  statement,  first,  purely  on 
his  own  knowledge  of  fact,  and,  next,  on  the  im 
possibility  of  such  a  thing  from  the  number  of 
games  played  by  Morphy  in  his  entire  life, — 
actually  less,  undoubtedly,  than  hundreds  of 
players  have  played.  One  could  not  conceive  of 
a  serious  suggestion,  that  Morphy's  play,  being 
of  the  character  it  was,  might  be  thought  to  have 
taxed  his  mind:  first,  because  it  is  too  perfectly 
clear,  on  the  facts,  that  it  did  not  tax  his  mind, 
which  ought  to  be  enough;  and,  next,  because  on 
his  own  observation  of  his  play,  pretermitting 
the  criticisms  of  others,  some  of  which  have  been 
given,  play,  to  Morphy,  was  not  hard;  and,  final 
ly,  because  such  a  conclusion  would  be  absolute 
ly  illogical,  in  the  light  of  the  facts,  to  common 
scientific  observation,  of  the  most  ordinary 
character. 

The  writer  almost  dislikes  to  digress  so 
much  on  this  subject,  but  the  popular  impres 
sion,  that  Morphy  "lost  his  mind",  and,  next, 
that  he  "lost"  it  "playing  chess",  is  so  strong  and 
so  widespread,  that,  unless  it  is  to  be  permitted 
to  go  on  its  way  forever,  unchallenged,  and  gath 
ering  undoubtedly  additional  strength,  with 
those  able  to  contradict  such  statements  ever 
more  rapidly  themselves  passing  away,  the  writer, 
at  the  risk  of  tiring  the  reader's  attention,  has  de 
cided  to  combat  this  impression,  somewhat  as 
Morphy  himself  probably  would  have  thought, 
it  is  hoped,  to  a  "mate".  If  the  "pursuit"  is  tire 
some  to  the  reader,  he  may  "skip",  until  he 
wishes  to  get  back  into  the  reading. 

The  reader  may  be  familiar  with  the  life  of 
Amiel,  the  Genevese  "professor".  If  so,  the 
reader  is  familiar  with  the  tragedy,  one  might 

One  Hundred  Eight 


aptly  term  it,  of  that  life, — one  of  the  most 
singular,  if  not  the  most  singular,  illustration  of 
the  effects  of  what,  adopting  M.  Scherer's  phrase, 
the  writer  has  always  since  wished  to  call  "the 
sterility  of  genius".  With  a  capacity  for  thought, 
that  no  reader  can  fail  to  notice,  this  man  yet 
did  substantially  nothing,  beyond  the  routine 
of  his  teaching,  other  than  to  transcribe,  from 
day  to  day,  the  flitting  impressions,  or  obser 
vations,  of  his  mind,  ranging  over  almost  the 
entire  field  of  literature  and  thought.  His  contri 
bution  to  the  world  of  literature,  therefore,  is 
substantially  only  a  "wonderful  diary"  of 
thoughts.  Amiel  offers  his  own  explanation  of  his 
sterility  in  effort,  but  the  upshot  of  the  matter 
is  that  his  mind  produced  so  little,  and  that 
practically  casual,  when  his  mind  was  remark 
ably  rich.  One  could  speak  of  his  genius,  except 
that  his  actual  accomplishment  would  probably 
not  be  thought  to  permit  of  so  broad  a  term. 
There  is  enough  in  Amiel,  however,  to  give  a  full 
meaning  to  the  phrase,  "sterility  of  genius",  and 
the  conception  itself,  irrespective  of  any  partic 
ularly  illustrative  life,  should  be  possible.  Amiel's 
mind  never  left  him,  but  many  years  before  his 
death,  which  occurred  at  fifty-nine,  with  the 
last  seven  years  spent  practically  in  a  struggle  to 
preserve  life,  he  gave  up  the  fight  for  concen 
trated,  or  systematic,  expression  even  in  the 
field  of  thought,  definitely  contenting  himself 
with  these  transitory  expositions,  as  it  were,  of 
his  personality,  recorded  from  day  to  day.  One 
must  read  this  story  of  Amiel's  life  to  know  what 
it  can  mean  to  genius,  or  near-genius,  to  see  time 
and  life  going  by,  and  nothing  accomplished. 
There  is  a  mission  to  the  world  in  genius,  as  well 
as  to  the  individuality  itself,  an  insatiable  "urge", 

One  Hundred  Nine 


as  it  were,  which  possibly  only  genius,  itself,  can 
feel.  In  Amiel's  case,  this  "urge",  or  "wrestling" 
for  expression,  in  the  absence  of  any  better 
phraseology  for  the  thought,  did  not  cause  Amiel 
to  lose  his  mind,  nor  is  the  writer  advancing  the 
argument  that  such  conditions  must  necessarily 
bring  about  a  derangement  of  the  mind.  He  is 
simply  stating  that  such  conditions  can  bring 
about  an  impairment  of  the  mind,  particularly, 
as  was  the  case  with  Morphy,  where  the  physique 
is  fundamentally  frail,  and  more  or  less  inroad 
has  also  been  made  by  sickness.  Even  in  Amiel's 
case,  however,  and  with  his  death  coming  at 
fifty-nine,  the  latter  years  of  his  life  bear  clear 
evidences  of  the  disintegrating  processes  at  work. 
With  Morphy,  this  disintegration  went  further. 

Morphy  was  not  a  near-genius,  but  a  genius, 
and,  though  he  did  not  find  an  outlet  in  literary 
expression,  he  was  a  genius  of  probably  what 
could  be  safely  termed  the  literary  type  of  mind, 
except  that  his  undoubted  faculty  for  mathemat 
ical  combination  might  be  thought  to  indicate 
a  peculiarly  sensitively  balanced  organism,  in 
some  aspects,  somewhat  distinguishable  from 
the  more  purely  literary  type;  and  Morphy's 
mind  certainly  represented  the  very  highest  type 
of  individual  refinement.  Morphy  may  not  have 
thought  of  the  phrase,  "sterility  of  genius",  over 
the  period  of  his  life,  beginning  in  the  year 
1 859,  but,  whatever  the  exact  way  in  which  the 
thought  may  have  been  phrased  to  him,  he  came 
to  know  the  meaning  of  such  a  concept.  That  is 
the  same  thing,  in  practical  operation,  which, 
with  an  original  melancholy  in  Amiel,  did  ulti 
mately  impair  Amiel's  mind,  breaking  most  seri 
ously,  as  with  Morphy,  the  general  faculty  of 
will,  rather  than  volition,  though  not  affecting, 

One  Hundred  Ten 


in  Amiel's  case,  as  seriously  as  with  Morphy, 
certain  other  more  specific  faculties  of  the  mind. 
A  careful  reading  of  the  diary,  or  Journal  Intime, 
as  it  is  ordinarily  called,  for  the  corresponding 
period  of  Amiel's  life,  will  show  rather  clearly 
what  was  happening  in  Amiel's  mind.  Even  as  it 
was,  however  inadequate,  Amiel  did  find  some 
expression  for  himself,  and  he  had,  also,  the  prac 
tical  outlet  of  his  teaching,  such  as  that  was. 
Beginning  with  the  close  of  his  chess  career,  in 
1 859,  and  down  to  the  very  close  of  his  life,  Mor 
phy  had  absolutely  no  outlet  for  his  energies,  or 
the  "wrestling"  thoughts  of  genius.  Chess,  he 
came  to  hate,  as  an  impediment  to  his  normal 
accomplishment.  In  an  article,  written  in  1879, 
it  is  stated  that  Morphy  utterly  "repudiates 
chess",  and  that,  when  he  is  addressed  on  the 
subject,  he  either  flies  into  a  passion  or  denies 
that  he  knows,  or  ever  did  know,  anything  of  the 
game :  that,  occasionally,  he  can  be  heard  to  ud- 
mit  having  played  chess  some,  but  not  enough  to 
justify  persons  in  attaching  notoriety  to  him.  Mr. 
Edge,  the  secretary  of  Morphy  throughout  the 
European  tour,  states  that  Morphy  seemed  to 
develop  a  positive  distaste  for  the  game  immedi 
ately  following  the  close  of  the  European  play, 
in  1859.  This  "hatred"  of  chess  on  Morphy 's  part, 
for  such  it  became,  especially  towards  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  is  further  confirmed  to  the  writer 
by  the  personal  observation  of  individuals  still 
living;  and  it  is  stated  that  Morphy  even  went 
to  the  extreme  of  issuing  a  challenge  to  a  party, 
to  fight  a  duel,  as  a  result  of  a  discussion  starting 
with  a  reference  to  chess,  which,  even  though  anti 
quated  in  principle  in  Morphy's  time,  was  not 
quite  so  remote  a  method  of  settling  disputes,  as 
it  now  is.  What  more  homely,  and  better,  illus- 

One  Hundred  Eleven 


tration  could  one  have,  of  what  had  been  going 
on  in  Morphy's  mind  during  this  fight,  in  his 
life,  between  chess  and  his  establishment  of  him 
self  in  his  chosen  profession  of  law,  with  its 
promptings  and  concurrent  claims,  than  this 
final  attitude  towards  chess?  One  observer,  in 
commenting  to  the  writer  on  this  attitude  of 
Morphy  towards  chess  finally,  also  remarked 
that  Morphy  seemed  to  have  "sufficient  control" 
over  himself  to  avoid  references  to  his  chess- 
playing,  apparently  realizing  such  references 
"excited"  him,  using  the  observer's  own  word; 
and  this  same  observer,  in  the  course  of  the  con 
versation  with  the  writer,  had,  himself,  indulged 
in  the  popular  phrase  of  Morphy's  having  "lost 
his  mind",  apparently  unconscious  of  the  rather 
loose  connection,  in  some  degree  at  least,  of  his 
two  observations. 

A  gross  mind  might  get  over  the  practical 
difficulty  in  which  Morphy  found  himself,  but  a 
gross  mind  would  never  be  in  such  a  situation. 
Turn  to  other  pursuits,  would  one  suggest?  That 
would  be  to  give  up  the  fight.  Some  minds  might 
do  that,  but  would  one  think  of  that  in  Morphy? 
Simply  as  an  accomplishment,  of  course,  that  is, 
as  something  that  could  theoretically  be  done,  it 
was  obviously  possible;  but,  does  the  reader 
think  this  would  have  reflected  the  mind  that 
moved  to  the  chess-mastery  of  the  world?  It  is 
not  a  matter  of  pride ;  the  workings  of  the  proc 
esses  are  too  subtle.  It  is  a  combination.  That 
mind  holds  on ;  some  may  call  it  pride,  some  may 
call  it  conscious  power :  it  may  be  a  combination 
of  both.  But  here,  we  are  in  the  human  domain 
again,  more  particularly,  in  which,  if  we  are  to 
argue  there,  Morphy  undoubtedly  felt  that  he 
could  make  a  good  lawyer,  and  that  he  was  mere- 
One  Hundred  Twelve 


ly  being  penalized  by  his  community,  more  par 
ticularly,  for  having  been  too  great  a  chess 
player.  With  him  only  the  ordinary  player,  the 
public  attitude  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
different;  and  hence  his  decision  in  1869  to  play 
his  last  game  of  chess,  and  take  up  the  very  last 
glove  of  the  public,  when  blind  genius,  now, 
must  have  failed  to  recognize  that  the  harm,  in 
this  direction,  had  undoubtedly  already  been 
done.  Following  the  human  thought,  however, 
Morphy  was  at  that  time  only  thirty-two  years 
of  age,  and  he  no  doubt  still  thought,  and  one  ex 
perienced  in  the  lawyer's  career  would  say  with 
reason,  in  which  he  may  have  been  confirmed 
by  relatives,  if  not  friends,  or  business-minds, 
that  he  still  had  time  in  which  to  make  good  at 
law;  and  so,  the  fight,  because  that  is  what  it 
was  to  him,  not  merely  hope,  continued.  Some 
time  after  that,  no  one  can  tell  exactly  when,  the 
mind  begins  to  realize  its  fate,  and  then  to  go  in 
to  itself,  practically  to  live  alone,  and  finally  the 
position  comes  to  be  accepted,  not  Morphy,  but 
the  mind  whipped.  After  that,  or  rather  with  it, 
in  a  substantially  correct  psychological  sense, 
not  merely  volition,  but  truly  the  will,  becomes 
impaired,  and  we  then  have  the  dreary  wait  to 
the  end, — a  correct  scientific  statement,  a 
mind  impaired,  but  undoubtedly  not  lost,  and 
with  no  one  able  to  say  exactly  how  much  im 
paired. 

The  writer  will  not  indulge  in  "literature", 
yet.  The  same  mind,  which  might  be  willing  to 
admit,  as  it  would  have  to  do,  that  a  human 
mind  can  be,  and  has  been  known  to  be,  deranged 
by  a  single  shock  to  that  mind,  not  by  an  acci 
dent  to  the  body,  might  be  willing  to  deny  that 
it  could  conceive  of  a  situation,  in  which,  not 

One  Hundred  Thirteen 


shocks,  or  a  single  shock,  but  steady  pressure 
applied  to  the  mind,  of  a  knowingly  depressing 
character,  over  long  periods  of  time,  particularly 
if  we  must  be  quasi-scientific,  in  a  more  or  less 
frail  body,  or  "physique",  would  produce  any 
mental  derangement.  If  such  person  could  be 
thought  of,  the  insult  to  the  reader's  intelligence 
would  be  no  greater  than  to  his  own.  The  slow 
dripping  of  water,  which  wears  away  even  stone, 
certainly  finds  its  parallel  in  the  steady  waste  of 
mind,  brooding  over  irretrievable  disappoint 
ment;  and,  in  Morphy's  case,  it  is  known  that 
the  body  itself  showed  the  emaciation  of  these 
years.  A  newspaper  clipping,  the  work  of  a  local 
correspondent,  dating  in  1 879,  bears  general  trib 
ute  to  this  wasting  process  going  on  in  Mor 
phy's  mind  for  so  many  years,  but  its  "discolor 
ation",  in  other  respects,  generally  to  be  ex 
pected  in  such  transitory  reports,  despite  their 
own  suggestions,  if  not  statements,  to  the  con 
trary,  makes  the  article  of  doubtful  value  on  the 
main  issues  of  the  situation.  It  bears  unmistak 
able  testimony,  however,  to  this  wasting  process, 
the  mind's  slow  feeding  on  itself,  which  is  the 
writer's  fundamental  explanation  of  the  impair 
ment  of  Morphy's  mind,  and  is  also  the  explana 
tion  as  to  why  it  must  always  be  difficult  to 
hazard  an  opinion  as  to  when  this  impairment 
could  be  thought  to  have  begun. 

The  next  question  would  be,  as  to  how  far 
Morphy's  mind  was  actually  impaired.  There  are 
some,  who  would  take  the  extreme  position  that 
they  considered  Morphy's  "peculiarities",  as  it 
were,  merely  intensified  in  later  life,  and  that  his 
mind  was  never  at  any  time  really  impaired.  This 
would  appear,  from  such  information  as  the  wri 
ter  has  been  able  to  obtain,  the  other  extreme. 

One  Hundred  Fourteen 


Morphy  was  always  "peculiar",  as  these  idiosyn 
crasies  are  popularly  phrased;  and  he  was  never 
a  "mixer",  to  use  an  expressive  phrase  of  the  day, 
which  carries  a  more  or  less  hidden,  as  well  as 
obvious,  meaning.  He  talked  very,  very  little  to 
others  at  all  times  of  his  life,  and  practically  not 
at  all  to  others  at  the  close  of  his  life.  He  was  al 
ways  susceptible  of  striking  charm  of  manner, 
when  the  occasion  demanded  it,  as  could  be 
gathered  from  remarks  that  have  gone  before 
in  this  sketch,  and  this  grace  of  manner  had  not 
left  him  during  the  years  of  his  supposed  im 
pairment;  but,  fundamentally,  he  always  lived 
alone,  as  it  were,  just  as  he  used  to  be  seen,  walk 
ing  the  streets,  "seul,  toujours  seul",  in  the 
French  phrase,  ("alone,  always  alone"),  save  for 
the  one  object  that  was  always  with  him,  his 
slender  walking-cane.  With  a  gathering  in  the 
house,  he  was  still  always  more  or  less  off  to  him 
self.  So,  he  was  at  college,  when  a  youth,  at 
Spring  Hill.  This  trait,  as  could  be  supposed, 
never  did  leave  Morphy,  and  it  never  does  leave 
genius ;  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  genius,  in 
its  essence,  is  originality,  and  originality  is  fun 
damentally,  and  necessarily,  single,  or  exclusive; 
and,  if  a  further  reason  were  wished,  though  the 
genius  can  be  polite,  and,  even  in  this  work-a-day 
world,  take  time  to  be  so  with  others,  yet  it  is  un 
deniable  that  constant  association  with  the  com 
mon,  used  in  no  disrespectful,  but  merely  generic, 
sense,  would,  and  must,  have  a  positively  deter 
iorating  effect  upon  any  mind,  living  in  the  un 
common,  or  moving  out  into  the  novel.  The 
aloofness  of  genius,  therefore,  is  no  affected  attri 
bute  of  the  truly  great,  but  an  absolutely  true  re 
flection  of  the  fundamental  character  of  genius, 
working  true  to  itself.  This  was  one  of  Morphy's 

One  Hundred  Fifteen 


most  distinctive  traits,  and,  in  the  common  mind, 
more  particularly  coupled  with  some  of  his  minor 
"idiosnycracies",  as,  for  example,  his  disincli 
nation  to  be  interrupted,  or  in  any  way  annoyed 
by  anybody,  when  his  mind  was  occupied,  which 
he  then  showed  very  unmistakably,  hardly  illog 
ical,  with  others,  less  directly  personal  in  their 
character,  easily  led  to  his  acquiring  a  reputation 
for  being  "peculiar",  which  reputation  grew 
stronger,  as  one  might  imagine,  as  the  years  went 
on,  with  a  steadily  growing  inclination  to  be 
more  alone,  if  such  were  possible.  In  this  way,  it 
became,  and  remains,  a  difficult  proposition, 
more  especially,  to  say,  first,  how  far  Morphy's 
mind  could  be  considered  affected;  and  next,  for 
this  reason,  as  also  for  the  reason  previously  sta 
ted,  namely,  the  slow  character  of  the  process,  it 
becomes  particularly  difficult  to  attempt  to 
say  when  this  impairment  might  be  thought  to 
begin.  He  had,  as  suggested,  very,  very  little  to 
do  with  any  one  for  many  years  before  his  death, 
beyond  the  most  casual  greetings,  as  also  pre 
viously  stated,  the  development  of  a  life-habit, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  difficult  thing,  even 
then,  for  an  observer  to  gather  how  far  Morphy's 
mind  might  be  thought  impaired,  if  it  then  was. 
Nor  could  it  be  said  that  he  guarded  this  sup 
posed  condition,  except  as  reflected  in  his  fixed 
determination  not  to  discuss  chess,  or  finally 
have  anything  whatever  to  do  with  chess.  This 
trait  of  isolation,  becoming  more  and  more  in 
tense  as  the  years  went  on,  presents  an  insuper 
able  difficulty  to  any  intelligent  determination 
as  to  how  far  Morphy's  mind  was  actually  im 
paired.  This  situation  has  not  always  been  clear 
ly  kept  in  mind;  and,  in  this  way,  as  has  hereto 
fore  been  suggested,  some  can  be  found,  even  yet 

One  Hundred  Sixteen 


alive,  who  consider  that  Morphy  never  did  suf 
fer  any  appreciable  impairment  of  mind,  and 
that  the  later  years  of  his  life  marked  only  an 
intensifying  of  his  "peculiarities".  The  other  pole 
is,  as  already  stated,  that  he  "lost"  his  mind, 
which,  in  any  reasonable  concept  of  the  word, 
"lost",  is  likewise  untrue.  Morphy 's  thinking 
went,  first,  directly  to  chess.  His  best  thinking 
therefore,  in  the  early  part  of  his  life  was  on  this 
subject.  When  he  put  chess  aside,  which  he  sub 
stantially  did  in  1 859,  and  not  even  in  1 869,  Mor- 
phy's  thinking  centred  on  his  professional  career, 
at  law.  It  would  be  untrue  to  say  that  chess  in 
any  way  occupied  Morphy's  mind  after  the  mid 
dle  of  1859,  though  he  did  play  casual  chess  af 
ter  that;  and  any  supposed  connection  of  Mor 
phy's  chess-playing  with  his  ultimate  mental  im 
pairment  would  unquestionably  be  considered, 
from  a  scientific  point  of  view,  entirely  too  re 
mote  to  have  had  any  connection  with  that  ulti 
mate  impairment.  He  undoubtedly  continued  to 
think  some  of  chess,  but  more,  and  most,  begin 
ning  with  the  close  of  his  chess  career  in  1 859,  of 
his  practical  future,  and  that  was  what  then  be 
gan  to  worry  him, — to  use  a  very  homely  phrase. 
These  reflections  grew,  and  they  led  to  unceas 
ing  thought  and  concern,  with  the  growing  real 
ization  of  the  sterility  of  his  life,  to  his  mind, 
(and  who  shall  say  him  entirely  wrong?),  in  the 
face  of  what  he  must  have  felt  his  claims  and 
powers.  That  struggle  can  not  go  on  forever,  with 
out  doing  some  damage;  and  a  frail  body  does 
not  help  in  retarding  natural  consequences,  it 
must  be  evident.  That  is  the  explanation  of  Mor 
phy's  ultimate  mental  impairment,  such  as  it 
was,  leading  to  the  very  emaciation,  as  was  to  be 
expected,  of  the  body,  itself, — a  very  human  ex- 
One  Hundred  Seventeen 


planation  of  Morphy's  ultimate  condition,  which 
should  take  its  seat  on  the  pedestal  of  truth,  at 
the  same  time  that  it  crawls  out  from  under  the 
altar  of  romance. 

A  fairly  accurate  statement  of  Morphy's 
mental  condition,  towards  the  end  of  his  life, 
would  be  to  say  that  he  was  substantially  in  com 
plete  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  in  their  sim 
pler  manifestations.  They  showed  impairment  in 
their  co-ordinated  workings,  and,  more  partic 
ularly,  in  the  higher  processes  of  reasoning,  pure 
ly  as  such,  and  in  memory  and  constructive  im 
agination.  In  other  words,  just  as  one  should  ex 
pect,  and  indulging  in  lay  criticism,  the  mind 
showed  evidence  of  the  wearing-down  process, 
years  of  conscious  exercise,  fruitlessly  directed, 
and  self-contained, — in  other  words,  years  of 
feeding  on  itself.  Will,  therefore,  in  its  more 
strictly  psychological  sense,  as  representative  of 
the  healthful  working  of  substantially  all  the 
faculties  of  the  mind,  in  co-ordination,  and  as 
distinguished  from  the  more  independent  concept 
of  volition,  was  likewise,  and  necessarily,  im 
paired.  In  simpler  words  still,  the  thought  could 
be  substantially  stated  by  saying  that  the  general 
efficiency  of  Morphy's  mind  was  impaired,  more 
particularly  observable  as  the  higher  ranges  of 
thought  could  be  considered  attempted.  The 
word,  "attempted",  is  used,  because,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  is  impossible  to  say  exactly  how  far  the 
mind  could  be  thought  actually  impaired  in  these 
higher  ranges ;  for  the  simple  reason,  that,  begin 
ning  with  the  period  of  Morphy's  gradual  isola 
tion,  the  exercise  of  the  mind  in  these  ranges 
grew  less  and  less  frequent,  the  mind  finally  clo 
sing  itself  practically  to  observation  by  the  out 
sider,  in  these  respects,  through  Morphy's  grow- 

One  Hundred  Eighteen 


ing  habit  of  limiting  his  relations  with  others  to 
the  most  casual  affairs,  ultimately  passing  into 
substantially  no  relations  at  all.  It,  therefore, 
never  can  be  said  how  far  Morphy's  mind  was 
actually  impaired,  except  as  a  pure  matter  of 
guess-work,  insusceptible  of  intelligent  corrobo- 
ration. 

No  professional  diagnosis  of  Morphy's  sup 
posed  condition  of  mind  was  ever  at  any  time 
made,  whatever  such  diagnosis  might  have  been 
considered  worth  in  Morphy's  case.  Once,  the 
writer  is  informed,  well-meaning  relatives  ac 
tually  took  Morphy  to  one  of  the  institutions  for 
the  insane.  When  the  door  of  the  institution  was 
reached,  and  Morphy,  for  the  first  time,  became 
apprised  of  what  was  being  attempted,  he  "a- 
woke",  as  he  could  when  he  wished,  and  an  argu 
ment  followed  right  there  with  those  in  charge, 
who,  evidently  concluding  Morphy  was  not  in 
sane,  and  that  the  institution  was  possibly  being 
made  an  unconscious  party  to  some  conspiracy, 
themselves  became  more  or  less  alarmed,  and  re 
fused  to  take  Morphy  into  the  institution.  No 
effort  was  ever  after  made  towards  incarcerating 
him,  or  anything  bordering  on  that;  and, 
throughout  the  remainder  of  his  life,  as  he  had 
always  done,  he  attended  entirely  to  his  own 
wants  and  the  care  of  his  person,  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  words.  The  "records"  on  this  whole 
question  of  the  impairment  of  Morphy's  mind  lie 
practically  in  the  parol  statements  of  contempo 
rary  lay  observers,  and,  when  a  judgment  of  sup 
posed  impairment  rests  in  the  verdict  of  such 
minds,  however  honest  they  may  be,  when  the 
person  was  admittedly  not  crazy,  but  rather, 
using  the  word  of  many  of  these  observers 
themselves,  "peculiar",  and  such  person  was  al- 

One  Hundred  Nineteen 


ways  regarded  by  everybody,  as  "peculiar", 
and  admittedly  had  very,  very  little  to  do  with 
anyone  at  all  times,  the  writer,  while  not  dis 
crediting  the  observation  in  toto,  at  the  same 
time  accepts  it  cautiously. 

Observers  sometimes  spoke  of  Morphy 
"mumbling"  to  himself,  in  later  years  more 
particularly,  as  he  took  his  walks.  The  writer 
learns,  to  be  more  exact,  that  it  was  not  strictly 
mumbling,  that  is,  the  emission  of  sound,  but 
rather  slight  movements  of  the  lips,  apparently 
more  or  less  unconsciously  made;  and  that  was, 
substantially,  as  far  as  Morphy 's  supposed 
"mumbling"  went.  An  intensive  mind,  absolute 
ly  uncommunicative  to  others,  and  thinking  in 
cessantly  to  itself,  could  easily,  and  in  fact 
undoubtedly  would,  sometimes  fall  into  just  such 
unconscious  movements,  except  that  they  might 
not  be  entirely  unconscious,  and  the  writer  would 
not  regard  this  as  an  evidence,  necessarily,  of  in 
sanity,  which  is  a  statement  that  hardly  needs 
argument  for  its  support.  As  a  matter  of  passing 
observation,  it  may  interest  the  reader  to  know 
that  Wordsworth,  the  poet,  did  exactly  this  same 
thing,  day  after  day,  walking  along  the  roads  of 
the  English  lake-country,  in  which  he  lived, 
which  is  a  thought  that  the  writer  has  attempted 
to  commemorate  in  one  of  the  poems  of  this  vol 
ume,  except  that  Wordsworth  actually  "mum 
bled";  and  he  did  even  more,  he  had  a  regular 
habit  of  stooping  to  pick  up  peculiarly  shaped 
twigs,  and  the  like,  from  the  road,  or  elsewhere, 
which  he  would  continue  to  hold  in  his  hand,  and 
with  which  he  would  appear  to  converse,  as  he 
continued  on  his  walk.  Fortunately  for  literature, 
he  was  not  deemed  insane,  nor  was  any  attempt 
made  to  incarcerate  him.  The  natives,  however, 

One  Hundred  Twenty 


always  thought  of  him  as  "peculiar";  and,  to 
them,  no  doubt  he  was,  as  well  as  to  some  of  high 
er  station.  Had  he  not  found  literary  expression 
and  reputation,  one  might  hazard  a  guess  as  to 
the  estimate  of  his  life,  indulged  in  by  observers. 
It  is  well  to  recall  that  Morphy's  life  knew  prac 
tically  no  expression,  beginning  with  the  close  of 
his  chess  career,  in  1 859.  In  other  words,  Morphy , 
mentally,  practically  began  to  die,  beginning 
with  the  year  1 859,  which  is  not  too  strong  a  way 
to  put  it ;  and  he  lingered,  genius  that  he  was,  in 
the  observation  of  this  death  ever  thereafter,  and 
in  steadily  increasing  intensity,  until  the  mind, 
in  part,  repudiates,  as  it  were,  itself.  Capacity  for 
the  contemplation  of  the  thought  will  explain  its 
terribleness,  and  what  must  be  its  natural  con 
sequence,  whether  working  to  that  conclusion  in 
the  individual  case,  or  not,  and  irrespective  of  the 
extent  of  the  working. 

A  "sardonic  grin"  is  also  sometimes  spoken 
of,  as  at  times  to  be  seen  on  Morphy's  face;  and 
one  writer  then  adds,  apparently  unconscious  of 
the  possible  import  of  his  words,  that  this  "sar 
donic  grin"  always  appeared  to  pass"  into  an  air 
of  reflection".  This  observation,  intended  to 
show  derangement,  was  indulged  in  by  the  writer, 
in  question,  almost  at  the  very  close  of  his  paper, 
which  is  undoubtedly  a  most  sincere  literary  ef 
fort,  prepared  to  be  read,  as  it  was;  and,  under 
such  circumstances,  the  writer  can  often  be  par 
doned,  if  such  is  in  fact  due,  the  exact  character 
of  one's  language,  or  even  the  thought.  Coldly 
criticised,  a"sardonic  grin",  followed  by  an  "air 
of  reflection",  could  be  one  of  the  sanest  acts  in 
the  world,  particularly  if  accompanied,  as  this 
writer  testifies  was  the  case,  by  the  slight  "mum 
bling",  often,  or  movement  of  the  lips,  that  has 

One  Hundred  Twenty-one 


been  noticed.  The  danger  of  such  habits,  as  ap 
parently  borne  out  in  this  instance,  is  the  possi 
bility  of  creating  in  the  popular  mind  a  belief  of 
mental  derangement,  particularly  when  the  in 
dividual  is  generally  regarded  as  "peculiar",  and 
holds  himself  aloof  from  practically  all,  giving 
the  observer  little,  or  no,  opportunity  for  the  ap 
plication  of  corrective  thoughts.  Fact  is  relative, 
and  contemplates,  therefore,  most  intimately  the 
mental  character  of  the  observer.  How  impor 
tant  it  is,  for  this  reason,  in  working  from  second 
hand  data,  to  know  the  mental  traits,  or  capacity, 
of  the  interpreting  mind,  in  establishing  the  sup 
posed  fact! 

Simply  as  a  "pen-picture",  to  be  forgotten, 
if  necessary  to  avoid  sullying  the  gilded  shield  of 
fame,  and  only  mindful  of  the  material  claims  of 
life,  somewhat  in  the  same  spirit  that  Morphy's 
"air  of  reflection"  could  be  thought  to  follow  his 
"sardonic  grin",  which  it  was  always  said  to  fol 
low,  the  writer  constructs  a  picture,  which  the 
reader  can  easily  see  is  gathered  from  Morphy's 
own  career. 

He  sees  a  chess-board,  representing  the 
chequered  career  of  life.  On  one  side  is  seated 
Morphy,  youthful,  full  of  hope,  and  filled  with  the 
fires  of  genius.  On  the  other  side  sits  Fate.  The 
game  begins.  Almost  at  the  start,  Fate  finds  it 
self  "mated".  Morphy  looks  up,  smiling,  but  not 
exultingly,  as  he  always  did,  when  he  saw  the 
game  won.  "We  must  play  over",  says  Fate, 
reaching  for  the  pieces,  "You  took  me  unawares", 
as  Morphy  seemed  always,  in  his  chess,  to  do. 
Morphy  smiles,  and  the  game  starts  over.  They 
fight  many  years  through  this  game.  Morphy 
knows  this  time  that  the  stakes  are  Life.  He  is 
"mated".  There  had  to  be  a  "grin"  at  the  end  of 

One  Hundred  Twenty-two 


that  game,  and  it  could  be  only  a  "sardonic  grin". 
It  could  also  have  been  worn  by  both  Morphy 
and  Fate,  merciless  Thing  that  we  picture  Fate. 
If  Morphy  did  wear  it,  viewing  life  in  its  human 
aspects,  which  was  the  way  in  which  Morphy  did 
view  life  while  that  long  second  game  went  on, 
not  from  day  to  day,  but  year  to  year,  for  no  tell 
ing  how  many  years,  could  the  "sardonic  grin" 
be  thought  the  expression  of  a  rational  mind ;  or, 
must  such  a  person  be  irrational?  A  "sardonic 
grin"  always,  and  alone,  might  prove  trouble 
some  in  argument;  but,  followed  by  an  "air  of 
reflection",  the  burden  of  proof  seems  to  shift. 
The  thought  may  be  regarded  as  a  "pen-picture", 
if  it  is  wished.  To  the  writer,  it  is  not  entirely 
such. 

Summing  up,  it  would  seem  that  the  efficien 
cy  of  Morphy's  mind  towards  the  close  of  his  life 
was  reduced,  and  that  his  mind  was  more  or  less 
impaired  in  the  higher  ranges  of  activity,  which, 
it  is  believed,  is  a  comparatively  simple  way  of 
stating  the  situation.  He  did  not  lose  his  mind. 
How  far  the  impairment  might  be  thought  to  ex 
tend,  is  largely  a  matter  of  deduction  from  com 
paratively  small  data,  because  Morphy's  life 
long  habits,  more  and  more  intensified  as  the 
years  went  on,  kept  him  always  aloof  from  others. 
The  most  casual  greetings  were  substantially  all 
that  he  finally  came  to  have  with  anyone.  It  will 
never,  therefore,  be  possible  to  do  more  than 
hazard  opinions  as  to  how  far  Morphy's  mind 
was  actually  impaired  in  effective  operation,  or 
in  contemplation  of  such.  The  phrase,  however, 
as  popularly  used,  that  he  "lost  his  mind",  and, 
likewise,  that  he  "lost  it  playing  chess",  must 
either  indicate  the  user's  unconscious  ignorance 
of  the  true  facts,  or  must  evidence  a  rather  un- 

One  Hundred  Twenty-three 


pardonable  carelessness  of  language,  unfair  to 
one,  able  to  offer  nothing  in  his  defense,  and 
whose  habits,  possibly  unsuspected  by  himself, 
have  contributed  to  an  exaggerated  statement, 
and  belief  generally,  of  his  true  condition. 

There  is  not  much  more  to  be  said,  unless  it 
is  to  call  attention  to  one  distinctive,  and  more 
or  less  curious,  feature,  attendant  upon  Morphy's 
genius.  Upon  the  assumption  that  Morphy  is 
the  "genius"  of  the  chess  firmament,  and  mean 
ing  by  the  word,  "genius",  here,  substantially  the 
"outstanding  mind"  of  the  chess  world,  and  pre- 
termitting,  as  unnecessary  to  the  issue,  any  dis 
cussion  of  the  merits  of  the  so-called  "old"  and 
"modern"  schools  of  chess,  to  neither  of  which, 
in  fact,  Morphy  would  belong,  there  is  this  one 
thing,  that  can  be  said  about  Morphy,  and  in 
which  his  genius  would  appear  to  be  unique.  Ta 
king  the  words,  but  not  the  exact  thought  at  the 
time,  of  the  Illustrated  News,  of  London,  which 
has  been  quoted  earlier  in  this  sketch,  Morphy, 
if  the  "genius",  or  "outstanding  mind",  of  the 
chess  firmament,  both  past  and  present,  and  the 
writer  thinks,  in  this  application  of  the  word, 
"genius",  the  claim  for  Morphy  would  not  be 
disputed,  Morphy  has  then,  in  the  words  of  the 
Illustrated  News,  acquired  a  "universal  fame", 
that,  the  writer  now  adds,  confirmed,  in  a 
measure,  by  Mr.  MacDonnell's  observations, 
previously  quoted  in  this  sketch,  no  other 
single  individual  in  the  world,  if  our  hypothesis 
is  correct,  has  attained.  The  distinguishing  trait 
is  this.  Pretermitting  anything  bordering  on  the 
religious,  which,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of 
the  word,  "human",  as  hereafter  used  in  con 
nection  with  the  phrase,  "human  activity"  or 
"human  endeavor",  would  be  expected  to  be  ex- 
One  Hundred  Twenty-four 


eluded,  there  is  not  another  single  human  being, 
as  the  writer  can  recall  the  situation,  in  the 
world  of  art,  letters,  science,  and  invention,  who 
has  been,  or  would  be,  recognized  as  the  "  out 
standing  mind",  or  "genius",  as  the  writer  has  de 
fined  the  term,  of  that  particular  branch,  line,  or 
department  of  human  endeavor,  or  activity,  the 
world  over,  without  regard  to  language,  nation 
ality,  or  race,  and  since  the  complete  ascendancy 
of  such  genius.  This  is  a  wonderful  tribute,  not 
only  to  Morphy,  but  to  mind,  itself.  The  next 
question  would  be  as  to  the  degree  of  that  great 
ness.  This,  in  its  final  analysis,  can  be  deter 
mined  only  by  complete  comparison,  extending 
over,  and  throughout,  the  ascendancy  of  that 
mind,  up  to,  and  if  ever,  its  eclipse.  If  Morphy 
is  the  "outstanding",  or  supreme,  mind  of  chess, 
the  world  over,  and  up  to  the  present  time,  and 
it  is  assumed,  in  the  sense  of  our  definition,  that 
he  is,  then  his  "genius"  shines  without  a  competi 
tor,  which  can  not  be  said,  the  writer  thinks  it  can 
be  safely  ventured,  as  to  any  other  life  in  any 
other  department  of  human  activity.  The 
contemplation  by  the  reader  of  a  claim  of  un 
questioned  superiority  for  any  particular  in 
dividuality  in  any  other  line  of  human  endeavor, 
as  gathered  from  the  arts  and  letters,  science,  or 
invention,  or  human  endeavor,  generally,  the 
world  over,  will  show  the  uniqueness  of  the  dis 
tinction,  applicable  to  Morphy's  genius.  There 
is  not  a  name,  that  could  be  mentioned,  including 
even  the  military  genius,  not  previously  specif 
ically  suggested,  where  the  naming  would  not 
provoke  a  discussion,  if  not  within  that  individ 
ual's  own  language,  nationality,  or  race,  then  as 
the  line  might  be  imagined,  crossed.  The  dis 
tinction  seems,  first,  peculiar  to  the  chess  firma- 

One  Hundred  Twenty-Jive 


ment,  itself;  and,  next,  within  that  sphere,  as 
peculiar  to  Morphy,  as  representing  the  only 
instance  of  the  ascendancy  of  a  single  mind  to 
universal  pre-eminence.  His  successor,  therefore, 
if,  and  when,  he  does  come,  must  attain  likewise 
to  that  singular  distinction, — as  yet  a  most 
unique  honor,  in  the  world,  and  as  curious, 
possibly,  as  it  is  unique. 

Single  Star, 

That  shines  in  everlasting  light, 

Bereft  of  all, 

Save  that  which  Genius  left, 

Take,  thou, 

The  tribute  of  all  humble  minds, 

That  kneel  in  awe  and  reverence, 

At  the  workings  of  Fate. 


One  Hundred  Twenty-six 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


,.  <  •/  'II*, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  927  651     o 


